


See You When You Get Here

by Foxberry



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Childhood Friends, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous Relationships, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Depression, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, Ghost Sex, Ghosts, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Morning Sex, Mystery, Not Really Character Death, Rings, SYWYGH, Soulmates, Spectral AU, Spectral!Marco, Spirits, Supernatural Elements, Urban Fantasy, ghost au, ghost!Marco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-02-26 05:54:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 123,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2640533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxberry/pseuds/Foxberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean and Marco were close childhood friends until Marco's police academy training created a void between them. A year passes with barely a word but one early spring morning Jean receives a call that changes everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Call

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enjouji](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enjouji/gifts).



> This fic is dedicated to [Michelle](http://enjouji.tumblr.com/) and [Alyssa](http://youranonymouslyunknownworld.tumblr.com/). Thank you for your insights and for sharing your personal experiences with me. I cannot thank you enough. Thank you to [Laurel](http://la-la-la-laurel.tumblr.com/) for editing for me once again. You are a valuable asset and motivate me to write. Credit also goes to [Michelle](http://enjouji.tumblr.com/) for a lot of the ideas and brainstorming we have done together to create this fic and AU.
> 
> Italian translations at the end.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _[ It had been over a year since Jean had last heard from Marco. The police academy, Marco said, had a rigorous regime from dawn to dusk. Despite his enthusiasm, it still managed to tire him out. When the classes weren’t taking up his time, he was training with his fellow cadets. Sleep became a precious commodity, but one he sadly could not trade for. His dedication was unmatched within his squad and often questioned with varying degrees of disbelief. As such, Marco’s calls were few and infrequent, and they fell out of touch. It seemed peculiar for Marco to be home at this time of year. ]_

The crisp spring air lazily brushed against the soft organza curtains and sent them twirling in the breeze. Beams of morning light darted across Jean Kirschstein’s sleeping face, awakening him like bright and spindly fingers stroking his cheek and combing through his hair. The sun’s caress was accompanied by birds in the tree outside calling to greet him. Their song was one of sunshine and just as warm.

His alarm rang out from his bedside table. A familiar rock ballad wafted through the air, much kinder than the light in its attempt to wake him. With a loud groan of complaint from low in his throat, he rolled over, pulling his linens with him, tucking them under his arms and exposing his feet.

His hands covered his face as his eyes blinked up accusingly at the curtains dancing above him, blaming them for their intrusion into his pleasant dream. Mornings were not the best time of day for Jean. He would rather sleep in and wake up naturally than by the announcement of dawn. Though that usually meant he crawled out of bed in the late afternoon.

“Aw, man. I do not want to get up,” he whined into his pillow. His hair stood up at odd angles, his bangs pressed against his forehead with the night’s sweat. A tuft of his hair stuck out above his right ear as he pressed his left side of his face into the comforter.

Shuffling his feet off the edge of the bed as the song ended, he felt the sting of hunger in his stomach as he sat up. Jean hated nothing more than waking up to hunger. His stomach growled up at him, as unhappy with its emptiness as he was. His mother’s voice called up from downstairs, but the words jumbled in his waking brain. Pressing his hands to his knees, he stood up awkwardly, feeling the ache of a restless sleep through his back and in his bones. It would be a long day. He could feel it.

His mother called up the stairs again, but louder this time, “Honey! Breakfast is ready.”  
The smell of a warm, freshly-made breakfast wafted up the stairs to greet him good morning as he opened his bedroom door. Its creak bleated out into the hall. Peering down at his pajamas crinkled from turbulent slumber, Jean ruffled his hair. His cuffs were pushed halfway up his arms and one pant leg up to his knee. His shirt was held together by only three remaining buttons. A mess would have looked neater.

“It’ll do,” he mused with a shrug as he made his way downstairs.

The warmth of sunrise had not yet reached the lower floor with its touch. The air still had a chill clinging to it that enveloped him as he descended. The carpeted stairs were soft and cool under his bare feet. It felt pleasant under his toes as he curled them into the nap of the carpet in brief moments of sleepy wobbling. 

“Someone just woke up,” his mother smiled up at him as she bent across the table to place a gold-rimmed plate of stacked pancakes. Steam rose from the fresh batch to pirouette in the air. She’d made an effort this morning. Jean couldn’t help but smile a cheesy grin at how spoiled he was. It was just the two of them, like always.

“It looks great, mom.” He sniffed in deeply, stomach grumbling impatiently.  
Turning to leave the room, she pushed out a small laugh. It sounded more like exasperation than anything cheerful. Jean chalked it up to fatigue.

“As it should. It only took me an hour,” she said once beyond the dining room wall.

“When has it ever taken you an hour?” he laughed, pulling out the wooden chair with a screech. His lips fell into a confused frown as he sat, huffing out his nose in disbelief.

Something was amiss. The air -- though thick with the enticing scents of baking -- felt resistant and heavy. His mother was an avid baker and loved any time she could devote to her hobby. She filled spare time with oven mitts and baking trays. She had never taken longer to make something than necessary, and the room smelt of more than just pancakes. Jean could not help wondering how long she had been in the kitchen. The soft hum of the oven was constant in the otherwise silent house.

As she placed the condiments on the table, her eyes avoided his gaze, insistent upon not answering his question.  
“Mom? What’s -- ” His question was cut off by the muffled din of his cell phone ringing. It vibrated and scuffled along the table. As she refused to turn her gaze to him, his eyes darted between her and the phone, waiting for an answer.

She spoke up, curt but still sweet, dismissing his question. “Your phone is ringing.” Her finger casually pointed to the edge of the table.

Caught off guard, he stared at his mother’s avoidant face, speaking aloud a thought that just occurred to him. “Why is my phone here?”

She slid the phone over to him. “Answer it.” It stopped halfway across the table.

Grabbing it gingerly, head tilted in thought, he muttered, “What’s Marco doing calling this early?”

It had been over a year since Jean had last heard from Marco. The police academy, Marco said, had a rigorous regime from dawn to dusk. Despite his enthusiasm, it still managed to tire him out. When the classes weren’t taking up his time, he was training with his fellow cadets. Sleep became a precious commodity, but one he sadly could not trade for. His dedication was unmatched within his squad and often questioned with varying degrees of disbelief. As such, Marco’s calls were few and infrequent, and they fell out of touch. It seemed peculiar for Marco to be home at this time of year. Now that he had graduated and was a sworn officer, he had little time for family visits.

Jean could not help but be impressed by how much Marco had achieved in comparison to his own lumbering along. Jean wished for the same conviction, but had not yet found it in himself. Marco had always known what he had wanted to do. His father’s footsteps laid a clear path in front of him to follow. Good father figures were hard to come by.

Ever since they had met as children in a sandpit, Marco had always seemed invested in Jean’s personal issues. Most of their catching up seemed to turn to what Jean should do next. What had begun as sandcastle tips became years of Marco knowing just what to say. Marco insisted that if Jean really put his heart into it, he would not see anything fall apart.

Thoughts whirled through his head, his brows furrowed, eyes not daring to leave the growing concern on his mother’s face. It crept across her face like a long piercing shadow that only he could see. She seemed intent on avoiding him. Jean shrugged away the nagging feeling at the back of his mind, gritting his teeth, and answered the call.

“Hello?” Jean chuckled into the phone. “It’s a bit early to be calling me, isn’t it, Marco?”

“Jean?” a small, high voice answered him, uncertain and wary as it breathed heavily down the phone. It was not the voice he had been expecting when he answered. “Jean?” the sweet voice asked again hesitantly between frightened little breaths. Each breath sounded like it would disappear into the ether.

“Yeah. Hey Luca. What’s up, buddy?” Jean rested his arms on the table to hold himself up.

It had been even longer since he had heard from the Bodt family, particularly Luca. In that time Luca’s voice had lowered noticeably, perhaps enough that he sounded more like Marco than he ever had. He must be around 12 years old now. No doubt the little guy had shot up in inches and would soon be tall enough to rival his brother.

Luca was a sweet soul, but considerably more shy and reserved in saying what he thought than Marco, even when in discomfort. It had taken months before Luca had even been comfortable enough to say hello, let alone maintain a conversation with Jean.

Looking up to his mom for help, Jean’s face flickered between confusion and worry, her eyes catching his for a moment. She smiled the saddest smile he had ever seen before turning away.

“Mama told me to call you.” Luca turned away from the phone to answer a voice in the background. Every word sounded like a thread in the wind. Jean’s stomach tied itself into knots and each knot it made grew tighter than the last as he waited. It seemed odd for Rosa Bodt to get Luca to talk to him in her place.

“I’m going to put Mama on the phone now.”

“Okay. Thanks buddy.” He smiled and waited, listening to the awkward shuffling as Luca passed on the phone. Luca excused himself in the background in a quiet manner.

“Jean?” The voice on the other end was shaky and hesitant. Her usual resounding, articulated manner disappeared into the uncertainty in her voice. It sounded desperate and close to breaking. Nothing else followed but the sound of ragged breathing. It was not the way he had expected her to be. It caught him off guard, ripping any remains of a smile off his face.

“Hey.” Concern grew in his voice as his brows furrowed. Words slipped from his mouth before he had given a thought to what the answer could be. “What is it? What’s wrong?”  
Rosa Bodt was not a woman to be shaken. She had moved to the country as a child and had struggled to learn a second language -- one different from the one at home -- with all of the societal trials that came along with it. He had never known her to doubt, to waver, or to be fearful.

When it hit him, the dread fell heavy to the bottom of his stomach like a sinking weight. He counted the seconds of silence. His breathing dissolved into huffs as it became more cumbersome and every breath in felt calculated and deliberate. If he stopped thinking about it, he thought he might not breathe at all.

“Jean… _Qualcosa_ …” She gasped in for air as she lost the words -- or perhaps courage -- to speak. Regaining herself with a click of her tongue against her teeth, she continued, “Something’s happened, Jean. Marco…” She took another breath, trying to gather her words. “Jean, _lui_...” She lost them again.

She kept saying his name an awful lot, he thought. Like she had to make sure he was still there. While he wanted to talk and say something, he was too focused on his curiosity. He had to know what was going on but hadn’t worked out how to express the dread that grew in him. The concern was in everyone’s voices, and as the silence on the other end stretched, and he waited for his answer, he looked up at his mother for help. Her eyes were glassy now, but her face blank and emotionless. Despite her lack of expression, she appeared expectant , but Jean could not tell what exactly she was waiting for.  
Finally, he prompted her, “What do you mean?”

“We… came home,” she seemed to grasp desperately for any word she could but only unintelligible mutterings of Italian and English made their way through. “ _E_ … they were waiting in the driveway when we got home. The looks on their faces... _Loro occhi_ …”

“‘They’?” Jean shook his head, confused. “Who’s ‘they’?”

She didn’t seem to hear him now, but Jean was having difficulty following her as she slipped in and out of English. All her talking seemed to be for her own benefit, not for his, despite her best intentions. In the background again, Luca’s voice resounded with the same cadence of his older brother’s, “Mama, you’re crying again. _Ti prego non piangere_.”

Her voice broke, and he could hear the labor of each shaky breath after a sob. “He was on duty, Jean… Not even a week in. He wanted to be so much like his father.”

Marco’s father had been a stubborn but dedicated man and a devoted father, whenever he wasn’t busy as an officer in the Trost police force. Marco practically worshiped the man. This job meant everything to him after his father passed away a few years back.

The table before Jean might as well have been empty for all that he could see on it. Words caught in his throat as if they were too hard to swallow. The room itself sounded quieter. Even Jean’s mother dared not move to make a sound, standing still and clasping a chair like a crutch. While the walls seemed to scream white noise at him in an attempt to get his attention, all the noise that he could hear was in his head.

The words ‘wanted to be’ swirled in there as he struggled to pin them down and make sense of them. He pressed his lips together, willing the thoughts to go away, but they fought back at him persistently. There really was no reason to use that phrase. No, it couldn’t be _that_.

There was something unsettling in the voice of such a strong-willed single mother breaking down while talking to a twenty year old. The sound of Rosa’s sobs in his ear set off something in him. A small crack ran through him, like the splintering of glass from the center of his chest, as the pressure built up and parted bits of him. Pieces held together by convenient positioning rather than his will.

Jean sat there, tears brimming in his eyes and blurring his vision. His throat felt swollen and smaller than usual as he tried to swallow the words he wanted to say but couldn’t. As he took his first blink in a time he couldn’t measure, the tears threatened to roll down his cheeks. Yet, he reminded himself, he hadn’t heard everything.

His shook his head to snap back into some form of attention to Rosa’s voice. She had continued speaking despite no affirmations on his end. Every new word she spoke sounded hesitant, something she did not wish to speak aloud but pushed herself to for his sake.

“They were conducting a sweep, and...” She paused. A shuffle of fabric followed, and the light squeak of a leather couch. Luca’s voice reassured his mother in quiet Italian. Jean had never understood anything the Bodt family said in Italian but a few choice words, and most of them from Marco. Regardless, these words of comfort made sense even to him.

“So, ah...” Rosa started up again after a few brief words to Luca, no doubt sitting in her lap, as she struggled to maintain her composure. “He got in the way and… he… didn’t make it.” Rosa’s voice rose up higher than he had ever heard it. Speaking gave way to cries of anguish and the woman he had been speaking to dissolved into a fit of heart-wrenching sobs. Each sounded as if something had been forcefully ripped from her person.

Jean’s mouth dropped open, Rosa’s cries still in his ear, and his eyes became transfixed on the table as if he had never seen it before. His arms seemed to tingle, as if they desired so desperately both to move and to never move again. He couldn’t be sure which. If he were to stand, he was sure he would collapse to the ground. In compromise, he slunk down onto the table. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that his mother now sat down across from him, her hand reached out across the table, trying to establish contact. He chose to ignore her, feeling incapable of moving. He didn’t want to interact with anyone at this moment.

It didn’t make sense. It was true he had fallen out of touch with Marco in the last year, but... surely this wasn’t true. Marco was always cautious and never the kind to deliberately put himself in danger. He’d trained nearly every day in order to follow in his father’s footsteps, and all that work had culminated in a mission gone wrong. He kept thinking Marco was seconds away from grabbing the phone and asking when he was free next. Or he was outside, waiting to surprise him like he occasionally did around this time of year. Maybe he was just in the hospital, lying down with his head propped on a pillow and his injuries purple and bandaged, but he was fine. He would be waiting there for Jean to come in and say hello, finally catching up like they had been planning for months. Yet none of this was true. Jean knew that, but every fiber in him hoped and wished and imagined anything. Anything but this.

“Jean… _Mio angelo_ , he didn’t get there in time.”  
His daydreams shattered as she spoke up again. Like billowing and swirling clouds of smoke, they disappeared into a dark vacuum that drew in the thoughts of everything he could have done or should have done. Years of memories prodding at his nerves, reminding him of all the regrets his mind could devise.

His hand was now held tightly in his mother’s. It was suddenly there and he couldn’t remember having grabbed on to it. Her face was streaked with tears. For the first time, he realized his cheek was damp; the tears had crept down his face. They both sat in silence for a while. The last curls of steam off the plate reached up half-heartedly into the air, and his appetite left with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italian translation:
> 
>  _Qualcosa_ \- something  
>  _lui_ \- he  
>  _E_... - and...  
>  _Loro occhi_... - Their eyes...  
>  _Ti prego non piangere_ \- Please don't cry  
>  _Mio angelo_ \- My angel (term of endearment)
> 
> \---
> 
> If you liked this and want to share it, you can find the Tumblr post [here](http://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/post/103012014582/see-you-when-you-get-here-chapter-1-the-call).
> 
> I would love to hear your feedback here or you can also find me on [Tumblr](https://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](http://twitter.com/foxberryblue) or on my writing only blog [Foxberry Writes](http://foxberrywrites.tumblr.com/).


	2. The Messages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _[ His breaths grew slower and his head tilted toward his shoulder, where comfort drew Jean into a pleasant place between wakefulness and slumber. The air around him seemed to lie heavy on his chest, swarming around and over him in his moment of weakness. It felt strangely comforting: the lack of movement, the silence between the calls, and the overall sense that he was safe here, at least for now. Perhaps if he fell asleep he’d wake up on the other side of the dream. He didn’t like where this one was going, and would give anything for another. ]_

**\- Fifteen years ago -**

 

The high-pitched squeals of other children echoed around little Jean, who sat contentedly up to his knees in sand. The bottoms of his dark blue denim shorts were curled up, sand gathered from a least an hour of digging lining the cuffs. His shirt was tucked into his waistband, the brightly-coloured geometric shapes spilled around unevenly in bunches of polyester blend.

With his small hands, he haphazardly smooshed together clumps of cool sand from a hole he had meticulously dug. It went down into the sandbox as deep as his hands could reach. Each new clump was added with increasing enthusiasm.

Peering up from his creation, he smiled toothily at his mother sitting on a park bench a few metres away. He waved at her enthusiastically, sending grains of sand through the air only to hit himself in the face with them. Squinting and blinking profusely, he quickly tugged at his shirt to wipe his face with it.

He smiled for a moment, taking in the view of his lumpy masterpiece. He thought through several options for his castle design, drawing his lips into a pout as he pondered them. He began to press the pieces together, building a tower here and a parapet there. His hands dug out a moat and a drawbridge. The windows of the towers were next. When he was done, he sat back, hands firmly grasping his knees, and puffed his little chest in pride.

No sooner had he admired his creation than it began to crumble. It began slowly at first, almost too subtle to be seen. Pieces fell from the sides. A side of a parapet, the edge of a castle wall, and eventually the towers themselves began to fall apart. Its construction weakened further as Jean struggled to hold everything together. Frustrated little grunts escaped his lips at every attempt.

A shadow crept over the moat and engulfed Jean’s sandcastle, shrouding his efforts. Jean ignored it, simply patting the sides of his castle.  
“Can I help?” a little voice interrupted Jean.

He peered up at the face leaning over him. The sun above them both shone down with a harsh light, obscuring most of the boy’s eyes past his short black hair. What Jean could see of the boy’s skin, shades darker than his own, was speckled from his nose to his knees, like he was meant to stay in the sun. Jean took a moment to look at his own pale hands and looked up again, squinting.  
“Help?” He looked over his castle, still crumbling despite his efforts. Withdrawing his hands with a sigh, he gave up, pouting. “It’s already ruined.”

Jean's eyes fell to the wreckage before him, and a pair of freckled hands reached out to save the base. The boy patted it firmly but gently, a stark contrast to Jean's impatient grabbing and shoving. The intruder’s hands seemed to be so much more dexterous than his own, and Jean stared on with a mixture of confusion, appreciation, and embarrassment. He still thought he was perfectly capable of fixing his own problems. His chest puffed up as he breathed in both air and the courage to speak up.  
“I can do it.” Jean insisted, swatting away Marco’s hands reaching down as he stood above Jean. “It’s _my_  castle.”

“I was just helping.” Marco withdrew his hands and placed them on his hips, seeming a peculiar gesture to Jean. “ _Tal sonata, tal ballata_ ,” he asserted proudly, glancing over the castle before looking at Jean.

Jean stared at the boy’s face. This strange boy that looked and sounded different from him seemed friendlier than most others who had tried to play with him in the park today. Words escaped his lips in his confusion. “What?”

“You’re not very nice,” the boy gestured at him, hands waving through the air and pointing at him. He shrugged, embarrassed by Jean’s stare. “Mama _dice che_  people should be _cortese_ …” He waited a moment before correcting himself, “... nice.”

Jean caught a glimpse of the boy’s light brown eyes, kind but determined with a glimmer of genuineness that no amount of Jean’s usual grumpiness could make him doubt. Sitting back in the sand, he dug his fingers into it, the boy’s words having taken him aback. No one had spoken to him like that before. No one had ever been so honest with him, with no attempt to spare his feelings, and little Jean pouted as he struggled with the silence that grabbed at him.

The other boy fell to his knees, the sand enveloping that part of him. His shorts brushed against the ground. His little fingers worked magic before Jean’s eyes as he patted and pressed the sand. In a small voice, he spoke up happily for himself, a smile growing on his face. “Being gentle is key,  _ma… a chi vuole, non mancano modi_.” He paused, freckles wrinkling together on his nose as he searched for the words. “Nothing is ever ruined if you don’t want it to be.”

“I’m Jean,” he felt compelled to say, interrupting, but the boy’s dark, freckled face did not turn to face him. “What’s your name?”

Huffing, he rebuilt a wall of the sandcastle. “Marco.” He gave another little grunt as he dug a hole for more sand. “I’m Marco.”

Jean leaned in to help. “You are good at this.”

Marco had fixed most of the cracks and the weak walls. Now that the sandcastle was back to its former glory, they continued to build it along the confines of the sandbox.  
“Sand from underneath is better.” He grabbed a chunk of damp sand and presented it to Jean. “ _Visto_? Eh… see?” The vowels in his words sounded different when he spoke, like they dared to dance across his tongue whenever he changed from words only he could understand to ones Jean knew too. While Jean felt he understood anyway, he was glad this new friend made the effort for him. “If you put your heart into something, you won’t see it fall apart.”

“Thank you,” said Jean, avoiding eye contact and staring at the castle door like he had found a particularly interesting grain of sand. He was not accustomed to receiving help, nor to anyone staying after he was gruff to them. His mother kept telling him he needed to be friendly, but it had never come easy to him. It had been hard to trust anyone since his father left.

“ _Prego_ ,” Marco said with a great big grin, one or two teeth missing from his toothy smile. Dimples imprinted his cheeks.

“What does that mean?” Jean’s eyebrows furrowed together, and he crossed his arms.

“Uh...” Marco blinked, uncertainty on his face, sitting back onto his legs to free his hands for an explanation. Jean spoke before he could.

“You keep using weird words.” They seemed strange to him, but that mixture of sound and cadence piqued Jean’s interest. He had never heard it before. “Are you being silly?”

“No…?” Confused by the words and now self-conscious, little Marco folded his hands in his lap, sand scattering across his denim shorts and now funneling into his shoes. “Mama speaks like this.”

“Oh…” Feeling guilty, Jean thought for a bit, then finally smiled at the boy -- at his new friend. “Can you teach me?”

 

* * *

 

 **\- Present Day -**  

 

The calls began in the afternoon. The birds chirping outside now seemed to taunt Jean as he buried his face into his pillow. Their songs had grown sour since the morning. He’d spent most of the day tucked up in bed. Stale pancakes from the morning lay in pieces on his bedside table. He had nibbled, but didn’t taste. By the eighth mouthful of sloppy cardboard, he resigned himself to sleep.

He had set alarms on his phone, placed carefully by his bedside table, but every ring and buzz of it by his pillow prompted a groan and an aggressive swipe. He woke only to peer at the screen, seeing but never taking anything in. Whether his eyelids were too heavy to stay up or he just couldn’t will himself to see anything during those hours, he wasn’t sure.

He rolled around in bed lethargically to prevent muscle cramps, but his movement was otherwise minimal. He had no desire to do anything. Everything seemed to be just _there_ , having no purpose and being of completely no interest to him. Even the short, sharp sniffs that reminded him he was still breathing seemed loud, as if they were coming from somewhere else.

Turning from his side to his back, Jean stared blankly out at the sky through his open window. Clouds had gathered as the day had passed, which was quite fitting, in Jean’s opinion. It wasn’t raining, but neither did the weather seem to mock him with radiant sunshine. He considered it a small blessing.

Closing his eyes again, he wished he could just melt into the bed beneath him. If only he could disappear for a while and avoid people having to see him like this. The colour in the room seemed to have warped and faded into the walls. Everything was hollow now. Every movement he made felt as if he were whipping through the air faster than anyone could see, and how he wished that were true. What Jean would have given to have disappeared and run away, to have run off and forgotten the morning’s news. Yet no matter where he might run, it would follow him. He could be sure of that.

His breaths grew slower and his head tilted toward his shoulder, where comfort drew Jean into a pleasant place between wakefulness and slumber. The air around him seemed to lie heavy on his chest, swarming around and over him in his moment of weakness. It felt strangely comforting: the lack of movement, the silence between the calls, and the overall sense that he was safe here, at least for now. Perhaps if he fell asleep he’d wake up on the other side of the dream. He didn’t like where this one was going, and would give anything for another.

A buzz started growing near his ear. It taunted him with its tone, and he challenged it with a frustrated groan as it started to sing out for him. His hand lazily covered his face, ensuring his eyes remained closed for the moment despite the phone’s insistence. Finally obliging the device, he rolled over to peer at its screen and slid a finger to unlock it. Blurry as his eyes were, he still briefly made out Armin’s name across the screen.  
“Not now, Armin.” Jean rejected the call with another swipe. That was the third time he had called today. The missed call icon on his screen flashed up at him. The tally sat at 7 voicemail messages, 12 missed calls and 3 unread text messages. All of which Jean had no intention of returning. Maybe they’d finally get the message.

The thought of reading those messages and listening to his voicemail crossed his mind briefly before he flicked it away like every other notification he received. He had no desire to listen to their apologies, their tearful wishes of sympathy, or their sickly sweet, sugar-coated lies of hope. They were not what he wanted or needed. There was nothing they could say to make him feel any better.

Work had tried calling him in the morning. Thankfully for Jean, his mother was answering all his calls then. She checked in on him soon after, gathering up the plates of pancakes he had barely touched, asking if he wanted to go into work at all. Jean feigned an answer, shocking himself with how weak his voice sounded. His mother told them no.

Jean was not the kind to take days off work. No doubt they would be discussing how strange an occurrence this was. He couldn’t be sure how Erwin would feel about that. This peculiarity invited a slew of further calls. Hanji left two voicemails. Connie left a message, as well as a series of images, probably in hopes of cheering him up. Jean made no attempt to look at them. Armin simply called once every few hours and never left a message. He called again for a fourth time. The phone rang loudly as he placed it back on the bedside table, where he let it ring out. The phone beeped as Armin finally chose to leave a message.

The door screeched open after a rapping shook the wood. His mother’s voice followed another knock as the door swung open. She peeped into the room to watch him. He could sense her before her ankle cracked as she placed a foot into the room.  
“Honey, did you want to come downstairs? I’m cooking dinner soon if you want some.”  
Her voice was soft and warm as always. She held onto the door with both hands, stepping cautiously into the room.

Jean peered up from the bed sheets, creases of the pillow having pressed indents into his cheek. He shook his head with little more than a flick of his blond hair. His hands scratched idly at his dark undercut. Words he chose not to speak tangled in his throat. Nothing came out of him.

His mother’s long face contorted, eyebrows drawing together in concern. She’d washed her face and drawn her thick, brown hair back into a tight bun. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows and flecked with flour.

“Okay…” she said quietly. “If you need anything…” she continued, edging closer to him and trailing off as his eyes broke their gaze. He leaned his head back towards the pillow, pressing his face against the warmth that had been leeched from him into the sheets. “No one has heard anything from you. Did you want me to --”

“No!” It sounded like a bark through the linens. The last sounds of halted words escaped her lips as whispered breath. He sighed and rubbed his face. Guilt flushed his cheeks.  
“I’ll get to it. Everyone is probably worried." His voice was croaky and flat, like days, not hours, had passed since he last spoke.

She spoke once more before she left. Jean pretended he didn't see her brown eyes tearing up. “Get some rest, okay?” she said finally.

The door clicked into place and Jean rolled over to his phone. The LED screen glared at him when his fingers closed clumsily around it.

The numbers and icons seemed to accuse him within its light. If he didn’t start now, he might not get through them at all. None of the message options seemed preferable. Pursing his lips, he called his voicemail and pressed the phone against his ear. He threw his head back against the pillow. With a sense of dread, he chose to swallow his reservations and get it over with.

  
MESSAGE RECEIVED TODAY AT 12:15 PM

“Hey sport! So uh…” Hanji’s voice began, loud and wavering a little, initially sounding a lot happier than Jean wanted to hear, but the emptiness he could hear in the smile made him linger. “Sorry about your loss. I know things are pretty bad right now.” A forced, nervous laugh filled the silence and Jean joined it with his sigh.

She sounded too awkward and worried to let silence fall for long. She was never good at finding the right words for emotional situations, but she made her best effort. Jean appreciated it. He could make out that peculiar clicking thing she did with her tongue whenever she struggled with which words to say. Jean always suspected it was because she surrounded herself with intricate timepieces. He could hear them in the background. She was clearly calling from his workstation.  
“You’re going to be fine, kid. You know. It’s just a matter of time.” She caught her own unintended joke and laughed. “I better get back to work but uh…”

The phone shuffled. Sounds of ruffling fabric and firm ‘No’s echoed in the background. There was a clatter as Hanji called out. Her voice was muffled by what Jean assumed was her hand. “It’ll only take a second. Look, I don’t have --”

The call cut out. Hanji had hung up unintentionally. Jean felt a smile twitch at the corner of his lips.

TO CALL BACK PRESS 2-2. TO REPLAY MESSAGE PRESS 3. TO DELETE PRESS 5.

 

Jean let it all play through. He was in no mood to choose any of the options the eerily calm voice read out to him.

 

MESSAGE RECEIVED TODAY AT 12:19PM

The message began. “‘Ey! So yeah, me again.” Her glasses clinked against the phone as she struggled with it. She laughed. “They should really make these message things longer. Anyhoo, here’s Levi.”

Her voice jumped up in excitement and contrasted with the raspy voice of Levi that followed, which was quiet, stern, and completely disinterested in the phone likely shoved in front of him. “Is this how you pass time at work?”

His voice veered away from the phone’s microphone and Hanji spoke from behind him. “Just say something nice to Jean.”

“Nice…” It sounded as if he was tasting a foreign object in his mouth. He let his tongue linger in a hiss. A puff of air rushed into the mic. “I come here to do a job. My job. Not to console your --”

Hanji’s chipper voice cut in. “Cheer him up a little.”

Levi scoffed into the phone and grunted, a little displeased. He took a deep breath and sighed out a slightly forced adage. “Whatever anyone says, do what you think you need to.”

Hanji laughed, surprised and incredulous. “What was that?”

“Honesty.” Levi grunted. He huffed as Hanji sounded like she leaned on him to yell into the phone.

“We’re all thinking of you at work, Jean! Hope to see you soon.”  
A bigger sympathetic smile in her voice came through, but he could hear her heart wasn’t in it. She didn’t lack for enthusiasm, though.

TO CALL BACK PRESS 2-2. TO REPLAY MESSAGE PRESS 3. TO DELETE PRESS 5.

 

MESSAGE RECEIVED TODAY AT 1:24PM

“Hey Jean,” Sasha spoke this time. The long drawn out vowels in her speech were unmistakable. Her usually sweet and cheerful voice was now hesitant and a little strained. It sounded like she wasn’t sure if she should be calling him and leaving a message. Jean nodded knowingly when he realised she’d been crying.

“It’s us!” Connie piped in with a similar tone to his voice, but sounding much steadier. The two of them were practically inseparable these days. Jean wasn’t surprised that they had called together. It was probably Sasha’s idea because she couldn’t manage to make the call alone.

“We heard you weren’t coming into work.” Sasha sounded dejected and Jean appreciated the concern in her voice. Her mood slipped into depressed by the last word.

Connie came closer to the mic, struggling to sound happy. “Figured you miss us being goofs.”

Jean could imagine his eyebrows quirking up in concern with that bright smile of his. “We can’t have that.” He could almost hear Connie crossing his arms when he spoke.

“Nah.” Sasha’s mischievous pout was as clear as if he were with them. “We’ve sent you some serious --”

“Heh -- serious,” Connie interjected with a genuine snort of a laugh.

“Oi! Serious ‘therapy'," Sasha responded, jokingly stern, almost relieved by this reflexive humour.

Connie chimed in with a sing-song, “Figured you’d miss our faces.”

“We know how much of a puppy you are,” Sasha then teased as Connie whined like a pup in the background. They weren’t wrong about him missing them. He felt a little disappointed he couldn’t go see them.

Jean smiled weakly, but it slid from his face, the energy to be happy leaving him quickly. It was a sweet gesture. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate it, and he could hear the hurting in them too, but they hadn’t known Marco like he had. The Marco they knew was the strapping young police cadet that stopped by a few times to say hello. Jean bit his tongue when she continued.

Sasha laughed and took a sharp breath. “Check out our faces! We sent you stuff on Snapchat and we know you haven’t seen it yet.” For a second she sounded like herself again, but the mood dropped and awkwardness followed.

Their tones changed and the shakiness returned to their voices.  
Connie’s was still remarkably stable as he said, “Hope you feel better soon.”

“We’re really sorry for your loss, Jean,” Sasha added, beginning to choke up.

“Yeah…” There was an awkward pause and the voicemail ended.

TO CALL BACK PRESS 2-2. TO REPLAY MESSAGE PRESS 3. TO DELETE PRESS 5.

 

Feeling obligated, Jean ended the call and opened Snapchat to find several pictures waiting for him on Connie’s story. He held his thumb over the screen, watching the counter tick down as the two minutes of captionless photos told their tale.

Lit brightly by the LED lights of Smith and Zoe Jewellers, Connie and Sasha each took turns pointing out the ugly rings in the store. This was a regular pastime while neither of the bosses (Hanji or Erwin) were looking. While Hanji shared their humour, Erwin frowned upon it as a waste of valuable time, and Levi Ackerman hated it most of all. It was never a good time to play that game near him.

A twinge of appreciation squeezed in his chest. They were trying so hard, and it felt bad to dismiss their efforts. Yet it still made him feel conflicted.

Pictures of sparkling jewels followed, the gems glittering below bright smiles with brighter teeth. They tried half of the store on at once. _Serious jewellery salespeople_ , he thought. He was surprised Erwin let them get away with goofing off in store. _Guess that happens when you’ve been working there for years_.

They took turns hugging the camera, arms outstretched to the phone. Jean felt a small tick of anger at them for enjoying themselves as he sat cooped up in his room and miserable. They were trying to be thoughtful, but all the fun they appeared to be having was at his expense. The further he watched, the more he saw the redness in Sasha’s eyes, and Jean felt bad. This had hit her too. Jean’s shoulders slumped.

They finished with a final cheery one with them together, arm in arm. That was when Jean broke and his smile really disappeared. He and Marco used to do that. Putting their arms around each other, smiling like dorks. Days when Marco would visit him at work and they’d stand around during the quiet times, leaning on the glass counters, making comments about the ugliness of some of the designs they’d imported. He could picture it clearly. Their happiness is what he had with Marco. They made that very clear.

With a sigh, Jean called voicemail again, biting into his lip as that calm voice spoke at him again.

YOU HAVE 4 NEW MESSAGES.

 

MESSAGE RECEIVED TODAY AT 2:45PM

The phone hung up in his ear. _Well, that was unnecessary_ , Jean thought.

TO CALL BACK PRESS 2-2. TO REPLAY MESSAGE PRESS 3. TO DELETE PRESS 5.

 

  
MESSAGE RECEIVED TODAY AT 3:02PM

Erwin Smith’s deep, commanding voice got straight to the point. “Good day. You have my condolences. I have approved you leave for as long as you deem it necessary.” Blunt as always. The clarity and brevity of it was welcomed.

TO CALL BACK PRESS 2-2. TO REPLAY MESSAGE PRESS 3. TO DELETE PRESS 5.

 

  
MESSAGE RECEIVED TODAY AT 4:26PM

Silence. Jean waited, checking the phone to see if the message was still playing. It was. When he returned it to his ear, there was just breathing and no words. They took a sharp breath as if to say something, but hung up, changing their mind.

TO CALL BACK PRESS 2-2. TO REPLAY MESSAGE PRESS 3. TO DELETE PRESS 5.

 

MESSAGE RECEIVED TODAY AT 5:11PM

Armin’s concerned voice followed. Sweet, articulate, and knowing, he began simply with, “Jean, I’m so sorry. If you need someone to talk to, I am here. Mikasa is here, and Eren… he’ll understand what you’re going through. We’ve all been there. It’s hard, and will be for a while. Take your time, okay?”

TO CALL BACK PRESS 2-2. TO REPLAY MESSAGE PRESS 3. TO DELETE PRESS 5.

 

THERE ARE NO MORE MESSAGES. TO LISTEN, PRESS 1…

He ended the call and a long sigh left him. In a lazy show of effort, his arm flung out to the side and he dropped his phone onto the side table carelessly. It slid off, falling to the ground.  
“Fuck it.” His groan was muffled when he rolled his face into the pillow to fall asleep. His sleep only half managed to take him, for he couldn’t really sleep comfortably or soundly. Not like this. Not yet.

The tossing and turning continued through the evening and into the next morning, him leaving only to visit the bathroom in a mindless daze. His mother dropped off food and water periodically. It seemed she wasn’t sleeping well either.

He woke again to the off-white of his bedroom wall. Calming white noise seemed to fill the room as he lay there, coming slowly into consciousness. Groaning, he rolled over, squeezing his eyes shut repeatedly and wrapping his arms around his pillow for comfort. Jean had no sense of time. Part of him hoped that by closing his eyes, he could will his hope of it all being a dream into reality. It was not to be. His hopeful eyes were met by a bouquet of delicate, white jonquils on his bedside table. Its flowers bloomed together in clusters, raised slightly in salutation of the sun, as if they huddled together. He choked a dry sob into his pillow, squeezing it tight until his arms ached, before turning back to stare at the bouquet again.

As if he had willed it, his phone called to him from its place on the floor. Rosa’s name flashed across the screen. His previous call from her ran through his head, and every moment he remembered felt as real as the tightness in his chest.

In a tumble of sheets, he jumped down to reach for it and regretted his rush immediately. His face grew flushed as he answered, struggling to pull himself back onto the bed. “Jean,” Rosa’s voice started, and his heart dropped.

His breath shuddered nervously as he breathed in, gulping before he spoke. “Rosa.”

“I wanted to let you know that we’ve put a notice in the paper now,” she said almost mechanically, trying to avoid the emotion bubbling up her throat.

He hummed an ‘okay’. He wasn't sure how to reply. It sounded so informal and distant.

“We’ve scheduled the funeral for Friday, in the morning.” Her voice broke a little, a weak smile in it. “He was always a morning person.”

“Yeah,” he agreed.

Jean tried to remember the little Italian that Marco had taught him. It wasn’t much, but Marco was always patient and tried his best. As he grew, his best friend slipped less and less into Italian, except moments when he was emotional or really frustrated. “ _Lei come sta_?” he said, unsure of whether that was exactly the right way to say it. He hoped the concern came through. He only wanted to know how she was doing.

“ _Che gentile_.” She laughed a small appreciative breath, continuing in English, “We’re both doing okay. You’re like my son, you know. You boys. Always together.” She choked up a little, and Jean felt himself tearing up again. The Bodt household had been a second home to him. It hurt to hear her cry. “Could you do something for me, Jean?”

Lost for words, Jean nodded his head enthusiastically for a few seconds before he realised he hadn’t answered. “Yeah, of course. Of course I will.”

She laughed through her nose. “Jean… I would love for you to say something at Marco’s service.”

“Uhh…” he stuttered, eyes growing wide as he took in a breath he felt he desperately needed.

“Not much, but I know you would give him the most… touching… eulogy.” Her sobs broke her words apart. “Do that for me, Jean.” There was no room for argument as she spoke. Her accent was stronger now than Jean had noticed before. “You take care of yourself, okay?”

Struggling for words, Jean said the first thing that came to mind, the words Marco always said to him when he’d asked a similar question. “ _Va bene_.”

Strange, he thought, that the Italian words for agreement and for ‘okay’ also literally meant ‘It’s going well’. Nothing could be further from the truth. It felt hollow and meaningless as he said it. They ended the call mutually when no further words came. Nothing more needed to be said.

Alone, in silence, he choked up, eyes watering and breath shaking. It was still real, and he was still in his room. His throat was dry, but he had no desire to eat or drink anything to remedy it. Minutes passed, uncounted, and his vague staring was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“There’s a visitor to see you,” his mother said, cautious but nonetheless surprised by the visitor. It must have been someone she didn’t know.

He didn’t want to see anyone. Not like this. Tears kept brimming in his eyes, but none would fall. It was still a shock to his system, and he was unprepared for any more unpleasant surprises. Everything felt bottled up, like one more crack would shatter him to pieces. It’d be real then.

There was another knock at the door.  
“Jean?” A low, flat feminine voice called out his name. He’d heard this voice before but couldn’t place it. He waited for them to continue but nothing further came.

“You can come in,” he said, drawing himself up into a ball and sitting on the bed with his arms curled around his knees.

A petite blonde woman walked in, adjusting her tight bun. Her light blonde hair swept across her face in a long side fringe, softening her otherwise hard expression in her small thin lips and large blue eyes. She did not look pleased to be there. Jean could feel her glare on his face before she’d even spoken. Her face didn’t change, and there was a slight puffiness he could see around her eyes. They looked more tired than as if she had cried. Dressed in a simple grey shift dress cinched at the waist by black plaited leather, covered by a white hoodie, it seemed as if she had thrown her outfit on and walked on over. She looked how he felt. Though, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, he couldn’t imagine he looked any better.

“I’m Jean,” he rocked back and forth, toes curling at the end of his mattress. “Jean is me… Who are you?”

She faced him resolutely, back straight, as if she naturally stood that way. “Officer Leonhardt.”

His eyebrows darted up. “So, _you’re_  Annie?” He broke their eye contact to laugh towards his toes. Perfect. This was too perfect. “Of course you are,” he muttered.  
She tilted her head when he looked back up. It was almost as if she bristled at that comment, a brief flash of confusion and anger that passed so quickly Jean couldn’t be sure he imagined it or not.

Marco had talked about a girl in the academy called Annie. She had been a constant source of puzzlement, as Marco didn’t quite understand her but felt it necessary to reach out to her. Marco told him he knew that while she slacked off in any of the physical exercises, she was perfectly capable if challenged. Marco had sent him photos of the bruises from their training, with him grinning stupidly and tugging Annie, who looked none too pleased to be there, into the photo with him. She didn’t look pleased to be in Jean’s room, either.

Annie avoided his eyes this time, dodging them as uncertainty rose in hers.  
“Rosa asked you to speak about him?” she asked, her tone making it sound like a statement. Bluntness somehow suited her.

Jean tried to meet her eyes, but his face, too, fell to the carpet below. “Yeah. You too, then.”

"Yes." A thoughtful look crossed her face. “You’re not as handsome as he made out,” she mused aloud, slight disappointment in her voice.

Jean laughed through his nose, not sure what to say. A sudden concern that this wasn’t the only thing that Marco had said at the academy bristled up his neck. Marco had been bad at keeping his mouth shut at the best of times, let alone bonding nights with fellow officers. He could only imagine the things he might have said. He licked his lips and bit his tongue, regretting the thought. The last time he saw Marco flashed through his mind. Marco had laughed and smiled and waved goodbye, making a show of his new uniform that looked like he was made to wear it.

Annie interrupted his daydream by sitting heavily on the bed, a good metre away from him. Her hands were folded on her lap like she dared not touch anything of his. The blank scowl on her face appeared to disapprove of the room’s mess. He watched her as she said nothing with her mouth but everything with her manner. Her fingers twitched in her discomfort, and her eyelids blinked more than necessary during a long staring contest she held with the wall. Everything about her said she didn’t want to be here.

Jean wasted no time in asking her, “Why are you here?”

Her head turned to look him over, almost as she if was accusing him, but she turned back to face the wall with nothing to say.

“Well, it’s great that you’re here and all, but I have stuff… to do.” It was a lie. Jean felt his face flush red as soon as the words left his mouth. They both knew the truth. Still in his pajamas, crinkled from yesterday, he looked like a poster boy for laziness and isolation, after a mere day.

“Look! If you’re going to just --” he began, until Annie started to speak with a quiet confidence that stopped Jean short.

“He had such enthusiasm,” she said flatly with a hint of reverence in her voice. “I didn’t think anyone could be that…” She pursed her lips searching for the right word. “Genuine.”

Jean stared at her. His mouth opened in a slight gasp of surprise, realising how very right she was and how well she must have known him. Jean had known from the moment he met him by the look in his eyes, but it was years before he confirmed that was exactly the way that Marco was. He did everything earnestly and meant every word he said.

She continued, “We ran into that warehouse thinking we were fully prepared. Guns drawn. Everyone in position.”

Hand pressing into the mattress for support, Jean leaned towards her, morbidly curious and anxious. He needed to know. “What the hell were you doing, anyway? What happened?”

Her sigh sounded more like a rasp as she let it out. “It was a raid we had been planning for months. Marco and I were supplementary. We originally weren’t supposed to be there.” Her hand rubbed her forehead before sliding down her face and it was then that Jean could see the sense of guilt she held in that tight, expressionless, stiff form she held her body in. “Marco got cut off from the group. He was always steady with a gun, but I didn’t think they saw him.” Her other hand clawed her nails into her thigh, drawing the dress together in a tight bunch. Jean sat speechless as her voice began to waver. “I found him... I never thought I would see him like that.”

She looked towards him then, eyes shiny with held back tears, and tugged her jacket forward like it was armour around her neck. She shrugged her shoulders up defensively, the white cotton of her jacket pulling down against them as she placed her hands into its pockets.

Jean stared at her. It started small, but frustration gradually grew from the pit of his stomach. She was here for herself, he thought, to pawn her guilt off on him when he had enough of it residing in him already. As wrong as he knew it was, his eyebrows furrowed and he could feel the bile building in his throat as he choked back tears. “So you just left him alone?”

Her expression changed for once, eyes wide and those stern eyebrows raised. Her face looked softer now, but that only made him more furious.

“What the hell were you doing?!” he yelled, all of his own frustration streaming out in a coarse but weak sound. His voice was raw and blistering, like he had been waiting for it to boil up and out of him. What he would have given to have been in her position. He wouldn’t have left Marco on his own. If he had been there… If Jean had joined the police like Marco had wanted.

Her back stiffened and seeing him leant forward, sneering in his emotional outburst, she stood up from the bed. She refused to look back at him when she replied, “I was doing my job.”

He huffed a dry, patronising laugh, staring at her and trying to break her down like he wanted to. How could she come into his room so calm when he was trying to do everything to hold himself together? “If you were doing your job, no one would have died.” He couldn’t bring himself to say Marco’s name.

She turned to face him over her shoulder, glaring down at him. “Marco didn’t tell me you were an ass.”

She stormed out, and Jean called after her, “And he didn’t tell me you were a bitch.”

As she left, she pulled the door closed behind her with a slam. The jonquils on his bedside table danced in their vase.

The pillow met his cheek as he collapsed back onto his bed. Whatever strings that had bound his pieces together had snapped under the weight of Annie's visit and all the guilt that cut at them.

He crumbled into pieces like a badly made sandcastle, but this time Marco wasn’t here to help him put it back together. Never having felt more alone, he curled up into the fetal position and slowly wrapped his arms around his pillow to hug it to his chest again. He shook violently as all the tears he had been holding back seemed to force their way out. Hoarse sobs left his throat like no other sound he had ever heard himself make. It all hurt, from the tensing in his arms to the sobs shaking through him, to the empty void growing in his chest no matter how much air he breathed in when he gasped to sob again.

He could hear Annie’s footsteps outside his door, quiet and hesitant, as she finally walked away. It hit him that she had heard him dissolve into this mess, but he couldn’t care if she could hear. Part of him knew she would never say a word about it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was particularly rough to write and no doubt just as rough to read. A lot of it has been based on personal experiences. 
> 
> \---
> 
> Italian translation:
> 
>  _Tal sonata, tal ballata_ -  
>  Italian equivalent of "Just as one calls into the forest, so it echoes back" meaning: Do not expect friendly reply when being obnoxious.  
>  _dice che_ \- says that  
>  _cortese_ \- courteous  
>  _ma... a chi vuole, non mancano modi_ \- Italian equivalent of "Where there's a will, there's a way."  
>  _Visto_? - See?  
>  _Prego_ \- 'Thank you'  
>  _Lei come sta_? - How are you? (formal)  
>  _Che gentile_ \- How kind  
>  _Va bene_ \- Okay  
>  \---
> 
> If you liked this and want to share it, you can find the Tumblr post [here](http://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/post/108676401537/see-you-when-you-get-here-9591-words-by-foxberry).
> 
> I would love to hear your feedback here or you can also find me on [Tumblr](https://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](http://twitter.com/foxberryblue) or on my writing only blog [Foxberry Writes](http://foxberrywrites.tumblr.com/).


	3. The Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ _Jean stood slowly, frightening the small moth that had kept him company. Down the hill he walked. Dew bespeckled swaying blades of grass like thousands of tiny tears from the marble cherubs adorning the graves. Each drop seemed to glow in the light as if to catch his attention, and they planted the smallest of kisses on his legs as he took a shortcut through the grass. Delicate and bright, they brought glints of light to the hill. For a moment, Jean smiled as if everything would be okay. No morning should look as beautiful as this if misfortune were to fall._ ]

**\- Five and a half years ago -**

 

Diamonds shone brightly up at Jean as he wiped his cloth across the glass. Rectangular cases lined the walls of Smith and Zoe Jewellers, and in the centre, where Jean stood, they surrounded him. Every part of the walk through the store was designed to be lined with jewellery. Part of him resented that.

It was a few weeks into his apprenticeship. Rather than allowing him to touch any of the watches and clocks strewn across the back room workspace, Erwin had him cleaning glass in the store. He’d explained something about needing to understand the way the business worked. How this translated to cleaning the glass until Erwin could see the full detail of his own immense eyebrows, Jean didn’t know. He had not planned on spending weekends and hours after school cleaning.

Jean sighed, spraying the next lot of glass with Windex and peering up at his friends down at the far end. Marco, Connie, and Sasha huddled around one section of the cabinet, pressing their fingers all over the glass as they pointed. Each of them chuckled to themselves. Jean resented them for a moment for having fun while he was working... and for dirtying up the shiny surface he had just cleaned.  
“Guys!” he yelled out. There were no customers to disturb this early in the morning on a Sunday.

“Oh, wow! That one is ugly,” Marco called out, pointing at something down at the far end of the cabinet. He whistled as if impressed and proceeded to laugh. His scruffy black hair shone under the bright LEDs. “How do they do that?”

“Honestly… I don’t know.” Connie leaned down close to the glass. His fingers gripped the edge of the cabinet. His brown eyes were wide and curious, with just the top of his shaved head peeking over the top of the glass. Jean could just make out the logo on his grey t-shirt through the display. “It’s a marvel!” he said sarcastically.

Sasha joined in, her brown hair in a loose bun that bobbed around when she started cackling, towering over Connie beside her. The hand over her mouth could barely hold in her snorting.  
“Someone thought it was a good idea to stick more chunks of gold on a 18 carat ring,” Sasha managed through her laughter.

“Not enough gold,” Connie said, pushing himself up from his crouched position and waving his hand over the glass to draw attention to it.

Marco nodded and laughed through his bit lip. “Never enough.”  
Together they chortled loudly. The three of them were a sight to be seen. Jean couldn’t help but smile.

“Are you going to keep putting fingerprints on everything?” he asked loudly. He sounded far more amused now than frustrated. It somehow seemed less painful to clean up after them than the strangers who came in just to waste his time by looking. They made this place somewhat bearable when it was at its most boring.

The three of them looked up with cheeky smiles on their faces as if he had caught them doing something inappropriate. Connie and Sasha exchanged a glance, while Marco merely smiled and shrugged at him. “I think I just came up with a new game.”

Sasha took the opportunity to point to the ring they’d been discussing. “See this, Jean?”

Jean sighed, placing the Windex on the counter. It wouldn’t be long before Erwin came out to see what was going on. “No. I don’t see it. I’m over here.” He crossed his arms. While he tried his best to look displeased, a smile kept making its way onto the corner of his lips.

“Do not get Marco this ring,” Sasha teased, and she laughed harder when Jean glared at her. “It’s so ugly that I don’t think Marco could ever forgive you for that.”

“Hilarious, Sasha,” he said flatly. Jean crossed his arms and caught sight of Connie wheezing beside her. His hand gripped Sasha’s shoulder. “Come on, Con, back me up here.”

Connie simply chuckled harder and shook his head, unable to look up. “No, man. No can do. You’re on your own.”

Sasha leaned onto the glass. The sleeve of her trenchcoat slipped down her arm and she rested her chin in her hand. Her warm brown eyes caught Jean’s. The look on her face changed to one of amusement. “Seriously, Jean, you gotta pick a good one,” she mocked.

Marco nodded enthusiastically, taking full advantage of Sasha’s teasing, and chimed in with a laugh in his voice. “Yeah, I prefer the ones with the 2K price tag.”

Scoffing, Jean put his hands onto the cabinet before him. “Like I could afford that.”  
Sasha and Marco laughed loudly, slapping each other on the back like they were congratulating each other. The two of them were partners in crime and never seemed to let Jean forget it, inside or outside of school. Connie didn’t participate, but found their antics too amusing to interfere.

Through his own laughter, he yelled, sounding somewhat less serious than he was trying to be, “Guys! Come on.” His voice broke a little under the stress.

Connie slapped his hands on the glass, sending a concerned shiver up Jean’s spine. His voice mocked him with its tone. “If you don’t stop teasing Jean, he’ll never leave his cave out back again.”

“You too, Connie?” Jean sighed. He quickly looked over his shoulder. The sounds of paperwork and watch parts were getting louder behind him. Last thing he needed was getting busted for his friends giving him lip.

“Hey. I’ve gotta side with Sasha.” Connie reached over and pulled Sasha toward him. His arm then draped over her shoulder. She was a good 10cm taller than him when she stood up straight, but regularly lowered herself down to his height. Leaning on the cabinet now, she looked surprisingly comfortable despite the way Connie hung off her. Sasha glanced at Connie, then back to Jean, and nodded matter-of-factly.

Rolling his eyes, Jean began to spray the glass again. His eyes stared absently at the ceiling in the reflection. The store almost always seemed far too bright. The ceiling was an off-white, but was brighter with the lights on. The carpet beneath his leather shoes was a motley of grey, black, and white. Despite its resemblance to television static, it still managed to maintain a touch of class. The cabinets around the room were made of a shiny black stand and clear glass over the pillowed white interior. He was still getting used to how sterile, empty, and unfamiliar it was.

A hand firmly grabbed his shoulder. He laughed and looked up to his left at the familiar grip. Marco had left Connie and Sasha to walk up to him.  
“So how’s the job treating you?” Marco released him and leaned against the cabinet.

“Honestly?” Jean raised an eyebrow and dropped his gear onto the cabinet again. All this talking was bound to get him fired.

“Honestly.” Marco stared point blank at him. His hands propped themselves on his hips. “Would I ever want anything different from you?” Marco was only a few centimetres taller than him now. Jean had had his growth spurt, and figured he wouldn’t grow any more. Looking at him now, Jean expected Marco would still continue to grow.

Jean snorted. “Point taken.” He sighed, checking out Sasha and Connie still mucking around near the front, and (thankfully) Erwin and Hanji still in their office out the back. “Erwin is a taskmaster. It’s hard to get to do anything that I’m supposed to be doing.” He gestured at the gear in front of him, looking as pleased with his situation as he felt. “I could be doing something so much more _interesting_. I didn’t _come_ here to --”

Arms surrounded him, and next he knew, he was staring over Marco’s shoulder. Thickset arms squeezed around him, and Marco’s heavy hand patted against his back. Jean merely stared in front of him. Confused, he wriggled in Marco’s grasp, but that only made it tighter.  
Marco struggled to not laugh in Jean’s ear. His voice dripped with a playful sarcasm. “Shhh. It’s okay. Let it _all_ out.” He intentionally spoke to Jean as if he were speaking to a whining child.

“What?” Jean cried out, somewhere between confused and frustrated.

Marco bit his lip and huffed in Jean’s ear. Sweeter than before, Marco spoke softly to him, barely holding back the laughter. “You can cry. It’s okay. I’m here.”

“Marco!” Jean’s cry was muffled by Marco’s shoulder, his lips pressing against the fabric of his green polo shirt. Taking a deep breath, he realised his arms were held awkwardly in the air, halfway between hugging Marco and pushing him away. They promptly fell down to his side, stiff.

Marco let a laugh pass his lips, the teasing running through his words like sickly sweet honey. “I won’t treat you any differently if you cry.”

“Come on, you’re embarrassing me,” Jean complained, wiggling around and trying to break loose. A glance to his right satisfied him that Sasha and Connie hadn’t noticed them yet. They seemed far too busy entertaining each other.

“Good.” Marco held him tighter. His arms squeezed around his middle, making it harder for Jean to move, and Jean promptly turned back to glare at him, nose to nose.  
“Are you going to let me go?”

“Never.” He shook his head defiantly. “Well… maybe if you stop complaining.”

Looking away, Jean relented and returned the hug with a quick but firm squeeze around Marco’s own middle. It felt like he’d lost more of a battle than he had been prepared to fight. “All right. Fine. Geez… One day you’ll be the death of me.”

 

* * *

  

 **\- Present Day -**  

 

The familiar shine of recently polished glass greeted Jean as he walked swiftly into work. His messenger bag bumped lightly against his hip when he turned the corner. Jean had every intention of going in today to _work_. No chitchat. No sorrys. No looks of pity from his peers. He needed a good dose of reality today. Something to distract him. Something that made his life seem normal again.

Sasha called out a surprised “hello” as he passed. In the corner of his right eye, he could see her raise her arm to wave. The gold bangles on her wrist slid down over the white of her sleeve before she lowered her hand when he didn’t reply.

Wearing a white cotton blouse and simple black skirt, Sasha looked the most professional and formal he had ever seen her. She had made an effort today. Her hair was tightly pulled back into a sleek ponytail, with her bangs neatly framing her face. Not a spot of colour could be seen on her.

Connie was also dressed to the nines. He wore a dress shirt, pristine white and buttoned to the top, so very unlike the usual. Jean could practically see the reflection of his face in his friend’s shoes as he walked past. His slacks were pressed, his cuffs buttoned with silver cufflinks, and despite his ‘visage’, Jean had to laugh that Connie still couldn’t bring himself to wear a tie.

Connie’s face changed in the middle of his conversation with a client. His eyes briefly caught Jean’s, then looked down at the tray of rings he held in his hand. Jean felt somewhat grateful for that. He didn’t need a warm, happy welcome back. It had only been a few days.

The door to the back room creaked its usual out-of-tune song when he pushed his way through. It would have been an annoying sound before, but now it just relieved him to hear something normal. He’d managed to make it this far.

He passed Armin, who sat hunched over his desk, transfixed. His shoulder-length blond hair was partly drawn up into a ponytail to keep it free from his face. His glasses, perched on the edge of his nose, were firmly secured in place by a strap just like the one Hanji always wore. The longer he stayed in his apprenticeship, the more he seemed to take after her. One hand sketched a new design while the other traced over the design specs. Armin’s shoulders crinkled the back of his striped, collared shirt as Jean entered, but Jean said not a word.

Glancing over his own workstation, he sighed and closed his eyes. Hanji had actually left it exactly as he kept it. The excitable goldsmith often took over his workstation at every opportunity. “You have the tools,” she would say, eyes lit up like she’d found a treasure trove. Her concept of personal space needed some improvement. While he was grateful that she had managed to hold herself back this time, it made him smile a little sadly that things had changed.

Throwing his bag down by his feet, he sat heavily in his office chair. It squeaked as he rolled back to his desk. He drummed his fingers on the desk’s edge before he reached up for the workbook. Its columns of dates, notes, and part numbers brought a smile to his face. This was something he could do. Something _only_ he could do. It felt nice to be useful.

At the top of the second page, he read through the names listed.

 _M. Zacharius. Broken seal. Pressure test to 20m. March 17th._  
_B. Hoover. Crown replacement. March 20th._  
_M. Carolina. Broken mainspring. March 22nd._  
_H. Diamant. Standard service. March 25th._

Jean bit his lip at the date. Reading “March 25th” nearly choked him. It had already been two days since the call, but it all seemed to blend together. It was probably the lack of sleep getting to him. With the funeral tomorrow, he wanted today to linger and drag its feet as much as he wished he could. He wasn’t prepared to stand there at the service as people read passages from poems and told sweet anecdotes. He had enough of his own memories to cause him anguish. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be there at all.

Squeaky chair wheels interrupted his thoughts. Jean became acutely aware of a set of eyes staring at his back. He could hear their owner take a deep breath in. His thoughts were no doubt blurring through his mind as he pinpointed what to say. Jean decided to make it easier on him.  
“Hey Armin.” His voice tried to maintain some form of steadiness, but as the first words to leave his mouth all day, they sounded dry, and as withered as he felt.

“Morning…” The words sounded cautious as they left Armin’s lips. It was as if he was testing the waters between them, securing a clear path before he said anything further. “Jean... You’re here.”

Jean continued to flip the pages before him. His eyes never left the book, nor did his head ever turn. “Looks like it,” he replied flatly.

Armin started slowly on his response. Jean cringed a little as Armin asked, “How… are you feeling?” Jean appreciated the concern, but it felt excessive. He wasn’t one of Armin’s puzzles.

Jean shrugged it away, trying to pass the tensing of his shoulders off as stretching. A loud yawn seemed sufficient enough for his ruse. “Like I could use a good dose of caffeine. Did Erwin get the caffeinator fixed yet?”

“No. You know how he is.” Armin’s voice lingered for a moment. Jean had stopped really listening by now. “I imagine he’ll get around to it and everything will be okay.” Jean could just about see the way Armin must have tilted his head as he considered something. His eyes were probably sizing Jean up right now.

The small talk seemed to be working, but Jean doubted that Armin had fallen for it. He didn’t hear a single movement from that squeaky office chair of his. “Typical. Ah well. Think anyone will be doing a coffee run soon?”

As if thinking better of commenting, Armin swivelled back to his desk, took a large box off a shelf in his own workstation, and placed it on the counter. “Connie was talking about one. He can barely get along without it.”

“Yeah,” Jean agreed, and silence fell between them.

For the next few hours, Jean busied himself with work. When he finished with some of the repairs on his list, he organised the paperwork, cleaned and sorted his desk, labelled all the parts he had been meaning to for months, and set up his work station as neatly as he had always wanted it. Erwin came in briefly to check in on his progress and simply nodded. Jean couldn’t be sure if the approval was for the tidying or out of sheer compassion.

Hanji came in briefly to pat him on the back and give him a box of additional parts she had found, adding more work to his list. Today of all days, he didn’t mind. The look on Hanji’s face when he thanked her seemed more melancholy than the smile that tried to hide it.

Connie planted a hot double shot latte on his bench with only a passing word about how he was glad he was on the sales floor. He was a man that needed to be in constant motion and had no patience for the kind of organisation Jean was trying to put into action.

Of all the employees in Smith and Zoe’s, Jean expected the most from Sasha. He looked up every now and then expecting to see the swing in her ponytail as she sauntered in to tell him about a horrible customer she’d had so they could laugh about it. She was convinced that she always had to share it with Jean and Armin in the back, since they never got to witness the pains and labours of the customer service life. Nothing seemed to please her more than laughing about a customer during her shift. Today was not one of those shifts, so Sasha stayed out on the floor. Perhaps it was some attempt to be considerate, but Jean would have preferred today to be like any day, any day but today. The funeral tomorrow seemed to be bearing down on him.

Jean began to fiddle with things at his desk. Seeing his opportunity, Armin stopped writing to swivel around to face Jean’s back. Jean could feel his eyes on him again. Armin had a way of being persistent. “Jean…”

“Armin… I’m only going to say this once.” With his elbows perched firmly on the table, Jean felt somewhat more secure. His head rested in his hands and his fingers delved into his hair. They clasped over his head like a vice, trying to block out the thoughts. The pressure building in his skull from his temples seemed to dull the aching elsewhere but did not force it to relent. His voice was like sharp, curt barks. It sounded commanding. “Don’t bring it up. If I want to talk, I will talk. Until then. Anything else.”

“It’s just…” Armin tried again, but Jean would have none of it.

“Armin. Please.” His hands tugged at his hair. They pulled until his scalp screamed at him.

“Yeah, alright. But we need to talk about it later.” Armin let it go.  
Jean sighed and hummed a dismissive ‘yes’.

Hours later, Erwin sent them for a rare lunch out. He drew Connie aside, handing him a wad of cash, and practically pushed them out the door, saying that he and Hanji would cover it.

The walk to lunch was long. Hardly a word passed between them. The sound of their shoes scuffed across the tiles of the long arm of the mall. Jean found comfort in the noises around him: someone on the loudspeaker asking for someone to report to the concierge; the garbled sound of a voice on a security officer’s radio; the screams of children running around the heels of their overtasked parents. He had never appreciated those sounds more.

He caught only parts of the conversation as they walked. Thoughts of the eulogy Rosa wanted danced through his mind with as much direction as Sasha’s wandering in front of him. Tomorrow she wanted him to stand in front of all those people and say… what, exactly? He found himself walking away from them and rubbed his brow, correcting his veering back into the group.

“What will it be this time?” Armin asked, leading the group of them and turning back with raised eyebrows. Armin appeared almost uncomfortable at the prospect of lunch, his hands delving deep into the pockets of his grey pressed slacks.

“Burgers!” Sasha interjected immediately. She hardly waited for Armin to finish. Walking along, her ponytail swung in time with the skip in her step as she kept pace with Armin. Jean was glad to see some of her natural cheer was still there, though it pained him that she seemed to be avoiding him.

A groan followed from Jean’s left. Just a step or two behind, Connie slouched into his walk. Not having to stand ramrod-straight to serve others for a while meant he was suddenly limber again. He caught up to Jean’s side and complained to Sasha’s back, “But you always want burgers.”

“They’re amazing.” Sasha spun to face them. Her eyes closed and her teeth dragged across her bottom lip, savouring an imaginary flavour. Her body bobbed down briefly with clenched fists. “You can sink your teeth right in!”

Connie stared at her, responding, in a flat voice, “We had them last time.”

“There’s that new sushi place,” Armin offered. He couldn’t stand the two of them bickering.

Normally Jean would have said something by now, but it didn’t feel right to. He was instead thinking about what memories he should share, what qualities of Marco’s he should talk about, and how on earth he was going to stand there and hold it together. He looked up at Armin then. Sasha was pulling a face of disinterest at Armin’s suggestion, but Armin’s eyes were set on _him_. He knew. Jean found himself staring back, taking a sudden breath, and promptly looked down.

Having missed Armin’s momentary gaze, Sasha made a humming sound. “Nope, I’m good.”

Connie threw his arms up. “What? Why?”

Sasha shrugged and tilted her head. “Guy gave me a funny look.”

Connie chuckled quietly and jogged to catch up with her. “Was it fishy?” He lightly punched her on the shoulder.

“How did you know?!” Sasha returned the gesture.

Armin sighed. He was never good at dealing with long periods of indecision. “Why don’t we let Jean decide?”

Jean had been watching the pattern of the floor tiles as he walked, and now looked up, a little stunned to be mentioned when he’d made no contribution. “Hmm? Look, I dunno.” He rubbed his face. Thoughts weren’t sticking in his head today, and every spare one he had kept turning to whatever moving eulogy Rosa Bodt expected from him. “You know what, let’s just do burgers.”  
Sasha threw her arms up victoriously while Connie made a great slapping sound as his palm met his forehead.

Jean left Armin to order for him and sat down at a wooden table near the back of the restaurant. He rested his elbows on the table and stared at the drinks menu. He began to trace the table’s wood grain with his eyes. He didn't know if he could do this.

Armin sat down carefully across from him. When he spoke, his voice was matter-of-fact and robotic. It was the kind of tone he used when he relayed facts, trying to avoid showing his emotional state in what he was saying. "Annie came in the other day."

"Yeah?" Jean kept his eyes on the grain. It squiggled across the table like thousands of rivers washing away sand.

"Mmhm," Armin continued cautiously. "She was looking for you."

"I see." There was little more for Jean to say. Words could barely form in his mind. Instead they seemed to scramble together an anecdote about Marco and him growing up. He could barely process anything Armin was saying.

"Said there was something important she had to tell you.” Jean looked up from under his hands to see Armin staring back at him through rectangular, silver framed glasses. Armin’s chin rested on his interlocked fingers, elbows firmly planted to mirror Jean’s, expecting an answer. “Did she end up getting in touch with you?"

Sliding his hands down the sides of his face, Jean straightened his back. Of course Annie had gotten in touch with him, though nothing she said to him yesterday had seemed to be of any particular importance. “What do you mean?”

Armin nervously tightened his ponytail, buying himself time. “I gave her your number and address…”

“Armin!” So that’s how she found him.

Armin shrugged. “She knew Marco. I figured…”

“Don’t.” Jean sighed and scratched the itch gnawing away at his lengthening undercut. Jean still didn’t understand why Annie had needed to come see him. Sure, she knew Marco, but there must have been more to it than needing to get the incident off her chest. Perhaps if he had been in a better mood it wouldn’t have gone as awry as it did.

“What did she…” Armin began, fiddling with his glasses, “want to tell you?”

“Rosa’s asked us both to do a eulogy.” Jean answered. The uncertainty and nagging thoughts of the day came through in his tone. It was higher than normal, almost questioning, as the words left him.  
Armin’s eyes dropped to the table. With nothing more to say, he said a quiet “oh…”

“I don’t know if I can, Armin.” Jean retreated to the comfort of burying his face in his hands, and the darkness that awaited him there.

Armin laughed sympathetically. It was a weak rush of air barely audible above the music and chatter around them. “Of course you can. You knew him longer than all of us.”

“Yeah but… I don’t know if I can _do_ it.” He immediately felt ridiculous. Of course he _could_ do it, but he didn’t know if he could handle it. He barely managed to dress himself this morning, and nearly walked out the door with his shirt inside-out. He was too afraid to see what Armin really thought of him.

“Anyone can say something about someone they care about,” Armin said in disbelief. _Of course he would think it was easy_ , thought Jean.

Jean peeked through his hands. “No, Armin. I don’t know if...” An anxious twinge worked its way through his abdomen and up to his chest, sending his heart racing, while the heavy weight of dread sat at the bottom of his stomach as its anchor. He had to say what was on his mind. “Is it bad if I don’t want to go?”

“What?” Somewhere between uncertain and surprised, Armin’s voice rose in register. His hands rested on the table now, and their eyes met again. Twitches of a reassuring smile tempered the overall look of confusion and concern on his face.

Jean took a deep breath and shuddered it out. Ashamed of himself, his gaze fell to the table and his voice cracked as he spoke. “Am I a bad person if I don’t want to go to his funeral?”

Armin takes a deep breath, considering what words would be right. “No. Remember you need to do what’s right for you.”

 _That hardly seems fair to Marco, though_ , thought Jean, worrying at his lip. “I just don’t think I’m… It’s too... I should be...” He spoke aloud his thoughts but could not bear to hear himself finish them.

Armin’s voice spoke sternly, cutting through Jean’s descent into self-chastising panic. “Jean. Be patient with yourself.”

Silence fell between them. Armin relaxed and sat back, shrugging. Jean mimicked him and crossed his arms across his chest. His eyelashes blinked fast before his eyes as he took in Armin’s words, taken aback by a thought that had never occurred to him. “Wow…”

Armin took off his glasses and placed them in the breast pocket of his vest. “What?”

“I… I really needed to hear that.” Jean laughed genuinely for the first time in days. The twisted knot in his stomach loosened itself as the relief washed over him. “That’s actually really good advice.”

Sasha plopped down beside Jean. Her hands drummed on the table as an announcement of her arrival. “So what are we all doing tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Jean turned to her, knowing what she meant but hoping he was wrong.

“Yeah, Erwin’s giving us the day off.” Connie joined them and uncomfortably wormed his way into the seat next to Armin.

“Wait, what?” Jean stared at both of them, his mouth hanging open. “Mr. ‘If-you-can-walk-you-can-work-on-that-twisted-ankle’?”

Armin rubbed his eye. His voice was flat and unimpressed. “That was one time, Jean.”

“It took an extra week to heal.” Jean threw his arms up in the air to emphasise his point.

Connie laughed loudly and mockingly mirrored Jean’s gesture. “Because you kept walking on it.”

“Boys!” Sasha raised her voice over theirs. Her fingers drummed across the table again. Since her drumming lessons began, it had become habit for her to tap percussive beats on any surface she got her hands on, especially when she thought between words. “What’s the plan? Did we want to meet up or something?”

Connie lowered his arms and nodded. “Yeah, I can pick you all up in the morning.”

“Pretty sure Mikasa and Eren are coming, right?” Sasha glanced at Armin, who nodded in response.

Jean sat waiting for Sasha to ask him how he was getting there. He expected her to question him and for his answer to be awkward and mumbly. He expected Connie to be up in arms and telling him all the things he should do because of his relationship with Marco. Armin would sit there quietly, knowing but not sharing his secret as he trusted him to do. But in the moments after Armin nodded, Jean’s fears were never realised. Sasha merely smiled, drumming some peculiar time signature with her fingers, and began to tell them all about how she suspected the burger joint of using a particular herb Jean had never heard of.

He spent the rest of the day smiling -- albeit in small twitches of his lips -- and it was the happiest he had been in days. His work was slow but steady. Every piece he put back into place made it feel like he was moving forward and slowly gathering himself again. By the time work was over and he had made his way home, he felt genuinely calm.

Crawling into bed early with a full stomach for once, Jean was grateful Sasha had not pushed the subject of Marco’s funeral tomorrow. He didn’t know what he would have said. The idea of standing there with people he knew and people he never got to meet that were part of Marco’s life made him want to disappear into a dark corner and curl up there.

Rosa’s request felt like a weight he was not ready to bear. How could he even begin to write something about Marco? There were so many memories that he knew that no one else did, but those were _his_ memories, _their_ memories. How could anyone else understand that? Why should he have to share those? He did not want to cheapen them by sharing them with anyone else, but that felt just as unfair as saying nothing at all. How could he ever hope to summarise years in a few minutes and still manage to do Marco justice? Jean would rather stay at home and avoid it altogether than lose himself to grief in front of everyone else there. Dreading the morning to come, he fell asleep and dreamed of grassy fields under the faint glow of warm, orange lights.

He woke early the next morning. He staved off his grogginess with the bitterness of badly made black coffee and stumbled around the house, reciting his unplanned eulogy only to the audience in his head. He’d been up since 6am, and now, with an hour left until the funeral, he began to pace to steady his nerves. When he returned upstairs, his outfit was awaiting him laid out across his bed. The slacks were freshly pressed and drooped over the curve of the mattress, his white shirt was pristine from its stiff collar to its buttoned cuffs, and his suit jacket sat waiting with its sleeves crossed over the lapel.

He let out a long breath when he caught sight of himself in his full-length mirror. Dressed from his neck to his toes, he looked so painfully formal in the suit he’d almost never worn. He was lucky that it still fit him. The last time he’d worn it was five years ago when he attended Marco’s father’s funeral. Back then, Marco had helped him with his tie. This time, Jean stared into the blank look his brown eyes gave him and awkwardly tried to fold it over itself as Marco had taught him. The morning light reflected back in flecks to highlight his face. Its shape was still long like his father’s, but he had his mother’s eyes. His usually messy blonde hair was tousled roughly, with the dark undercut underneath just on the edge of being too long. He combed it neatly into place and tucked the comb into his slacks’ pocket. It was the most put-together he had looked in days. His weak attempt at fixing his own tie would have to do.

His mother called to him from the bottom of the stairs. It was time to go. In a clamour of footsteps, Jean made his way down to the approval of his awaiting mother. The walk to the front door was brief, and in a casual glance back she asked, “Ready to go?”

Jean found himself faltering. He opened his mouth to speak but he was caught between what he wanted to say and what he should have said. Anything out of his mouth in response to her question would have been a lie and a disappointment. He wasn’t ready for this at all.  
Seeing the confusion in Jean’s eyes, her face softened and she reached out to pull him into a hug. Her firm hands held him close, one stroking his hair as she always had when she comforted him, and the tears that welled in his eyes trickled down his face.

He shook his head against her hand. “I’m not. I’m really not.”  
With a pat on his back and a reassuring glance as she shut the front door, she simply left Jean standing in the entryway. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t make himself go. No matter how much it ate him up inside.

He spent the hour sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, listening to his heartbeat. Shaky breaths rattled from his chest on their way out and seemed to be drawn only by force on the way in. His teeth worried at the skin of his fingers. It was like they were trying to bite away the burning guilt he couldn’t force out. What would the others say? Everyone expected him to be there, especially Rosa. He could only imagine the disappointment on her face without him there. Little Luca would no doubt be heartbroken. The poor kid looked up to Jean like a second older brother and he would be there with only his mother’s hand to hold. His stomach seemed to curdle as he lurched forward on the stairs and curled in on himself.

Stomach growling at him and fingers aching from his nibbling, he stood and resolved to see himself there, if only briefly. He might not be able to cope with his last image of Marco being one in a casket, but every thought he had beat against him until the guilt overcame his reservations. He hurried out the front door, slamming it behind him and fiddling roughly with the keys to lock it.

Trost Cemetery stood only four blocks away from Jean’s home, bordered on all sides by the neighbourhood park. It was an aging establishment with century-old angels overseeing the concrete graves below them, little marble cherubs that watched over the graves of children, and large clusters of new wildflowers pushing their way up through the dirt. Their vibrant array clashed against the dreariness of the mottled grey stone and gravel paths around them. Oak trees sprouted forth from the ground like waking giants; their branches stretched out just above the ground before curling their way up into the sky.

Down the street and through the cemetery gate Jean ran. Every breath was more laboured than the last. Silhouettes of angels lay across the paths laid out before him, and they seemed to watch him as he rushed past. When he reached a particularly large gnarled and knotted oak tree, he leaned against it, trying to catch his breath. Its surface was rough against his hands. He stared at the lines in the bark and his hands pressed up against it, eyes tracing his fingers.

Grey clouds hung in the air. The morning sun peeped through them, lining them in gold, and filtered through the canopies of vibrant green leaves swaying in the breeze. The wind hastened through the cemetery grounds, rustling tree and cloth alike, but its light chill did not sway proceedings. Glancing up from his fingers, he spotted Marco’s service in the distance. Somehow the light seemed to smile down upon it. He was close, close enough to make out faces, and so hid in the safety of the shade.

The service had begun and was led by a reverend that Jean did not know. Her blonde hair brushed against her glasses while she read her passage from a book, taking a moment to brush it out of the way to continue. Rosa and Luca stood to her left, dressed head to toe in black, their eyes firmly concerned with only the metre of ground before them.

Appearing authoritative in their uniforms, Marco’s fellow academy graduates stood to attention and struggled to appear proud with their stiff stances. Jean could make out Annie near the front. Her face was just as bare and expressionless as it had been yesterday. Her jaw tightened and loosened as she stood there. Even Jean could tell that she was clenching her teeth.

Sasha and Connie stood arm in arm over on the other side. He could not tell who kept whom standing. They looked so deflated, all in black, their usual smiles worn away like the crumbling stony faces of the angels near them. But theirs had never been cast from stone in the first place. Jean’s eyes darted away from them. Heavy claws of guilt pawed up from his stomach. Their grasp tightened the longer he looked at them. Sasha’s shoulders shook in between her attempts to straighten her back, trying to draw herself up to be as stiff as she probably wished she could be. She could try all she wanted, Jean knew, but Sasha couldn’t hide who she was.

Beside her, Connie looked blank. Only his eyebrows seemed to move when he shifted his hand to Sasha’s shoulder to reassure her. The same mask that made him so good at sales, with its lack of reaction, fake smiles, and a brave resistance to anything the customer said, cropped up on his face. A twitch in his cheek as he tightened his jaw and ground his teeth together gave him away. If Connie cried, it would not be here.

Armin stood to their right, with Eren and Mikasa on either side of him.  
Mikasa’s lustrous black hair was drawn up into a loose bun, bobbing lightly with her movements. Though it was a rare sight to see her in a little black dress, formality suited her toned form well. As she stood next to Eren, signing the reverend's words for him, she appeared the very portrait of grace. Her form was swift but determined, every curve of a finger or twist of a wrist intentional and precise.

Eren stood solemn and still. He looked somewhat peculiar in a well-fitting suit. His eyes under his shaggy brown mop watched Mikasa with a focus Jean had not seen before. Even from where Jean stood, he could make out the growing expression of confusion on his face and the thought that occurred to him. He knew what Eren would ask next. Signing for Mikasa to pause, he turned and nudged Armin. His face became animated, his hands joining together. Placing a thumb to the side of his right temple, he curled his last two fingers and doubly twitched his first two fingers forward. “Horse”. The only sign Jean knew. He knew instantly Eren was asking where he was. Sure enough, Eren followed with a sweeping gesture at the crowd. Eren’s signing was confident as he was. Jean could see it in every quick movement he made, as if he put his heart into them. They were much looser in form than Mikasa’s, but more lively in execution.

Armin peered around and signed back to Eren. Armin’s signing looked hesitant next to Eren’s, as if he searched for the perfect words in each of the pauses he made. Jean could see the slight disappointment in his shoulders. He was sure Armin already expected he wasn’t going to be there, but had hoped he would show up. A flush of shame went up Jean’s neck. He should be there beside him rather than staring at him from under the oak.

Each of the mourners took turns laying flowers on the casket. Tall, bright flowers of yellow and black; blooming red flowers with petals like silk; and small delicate clusters of blue. For every person there was a different flower. Jean couldn’t help tearing up at their gesture. It was no doubt Armin’s idea. The final one, placed by Luca, was a bouquet of white jonquils. They were likely the ones that Jean and Marco had planted in the front garden of the Bodt home a few summers ago.

As he took a step forward, he faltered. The step he tried to take was half what he intended. He tried again with his other foot, and yet again he could not make himself move far. Again and again and again he tried, to no avail. He couldn’t bear to be any closer than he already was. The wind seemed to whip past him to challenge his cowardice, but it merely reinforced his self-loathing. How could he could he call himself a friend, standing here? Watching from afar hardly counted as attending.

Jean sunk to the ground, sitting down haphazardly on the knotted roots of the oak tree. Like twisted fingers, they dug in and out of the soil, reaching out to claim a spot of land as their own. As uncomfortable as they were, Jean didn’t mind them. His sense of discomfort waned in comparison to the growing agitation in his chest.

Leaves blew by and tumbled over Jean’s feet. A lone moth fluttered before him, its wings as brown and dull as the oak tree’s bark. It settled on the tip of his shoe after much hesitation. He sat there watching the proceedings until the final members of the gathering left. The last of them was little 12-year-old Luca. He placed a hand on the freshly placed tombstone. His fingers pressed up against it like he was trying to leave his handprint behind. His steps back to his mother’s side were slow and staggering.

Jean stood slowly, frightening the small moth that had kept him company. Down the hill he walked. Dew bespeckled swaying blades of grass like thousands of tiny tears from the marble cherubs adorning the graves. Each drop seemed to glow in the light as if to catch his attention, and they planted the smallest of kisses on his legs as he took a shortcut through the grass. Delicate and bright, they brought glints of light to the hill. For a moment, Jean smiled as if everything would be okay. No morning should look as beautiful as this if misfortune were to fall.

The smell of wet earth reached up to him as he neared Marco’s grave. The flowers that surrounded it were unable to compete with its damp aroma, but looked nonetheless cheerful around the headstone. Its simple design left Jean wanting nothing more. Even the inscription seemed perfect to him. Tears welled in his eyes as he read it.

 _In Memory of_  
_MARCO BODT_

 _Died_  
_March 24th, 2014_  
_Aged 21_

It felt wrong to smile, but it pulled at the corner of his lips all the same with the bitterness of poorly made coffee, like the kind he and Marco used to drink in the morning. His teeth pressed into the tip of his tongue, almost tasting it in the memory. It was real now: the earth beneath his feet, the sun in the sky, and the wind whispering behind his back, all in this moment, as he read the last line in the stone.

_He had a kindly word for each and died beloved by all._

There was a small tap at his shoulder. Then another. Jean looked over his shoulder quickly at the sound of light pattering against the grass. There was nothing there. A small, wet drop hit the tip of his nose, and with an exhale he peered up at the sky. Despite the sun, rain began to fall. Its touch was featherlight against his skin, turning his white cotton shirt clear in random spots.  
“Of all things,” he said to no one in particular, “a sunshower.” He smiled and reached back to ruffle his hair, feeling somewhat self conscious confronted with Marco’s grave. “Seems appropriate, doesn’t it, Marco?” He tilted his head back and let the rain and the sunshine linger on his upturned face. “Figures it would happen on a day like today.” He closed his eyes and resolved he would disappear, if only for today.

Free for the rest of the day, he returned home to change. A simple long-sleeved shirt in grey and dark denim jeans would do. Wearing nothing more than the darkest shades he could find, he left home, without a word to his mother, to wander the town. He figured the walking would do him good, and he hoped that avoiding all the things that reminded him of Marco would do him better. Yet when he walked the streets of Trost, he found he could not escape them. Everywhere he turned there was a restaurant, or a park, or their old school, or even a sidewalk where they had written their initials in the wet cement. No matter where he went, there was always something to remind him that Marco was no longer here; he kept walking nonetheless.

It was dark when he returned to Marco’s grave later that day. Incapable of returning home and sleeping, he found himself wandering the streets with no clear aim. Once he reached the cemetery gate, he knew where he was headed. He felt drawn to it again. There was so much he had wanted to say, so much he had never had the _chance_ to say. Despite the distance between them and how little they ended up seeing each other over the past two years, there had been a comfort to knowing he was still out there, knowing he could see him any time he was free. Jean didn’t know how to cope with the empty void that remained now that Marco was gone.

Light rain began to fall. The scent of leaves seemed to thicken around him. Step by step he crunched through them. A chill seemed to seep from the stone into the air, but Jean pushed on through the shivers that travelled up and down his arms.

The buzz of the orange lights seemed to warp as he walked along the gravel paths. The shadows of angels now blended into the dark, somewhat more threatening than they had been in the morning. The shadows seemed to move with him and lean to get a better look. Crickets sang around him, calling out to the night, and silencing as soon as he drew near.

With Marco’s grave a few steps away, Jean stopped and stared. His arms, having been calmly swinging with his walk, dropped to his sides, and his feet began to backtrack of their own accord. A wisp of fog swirled in front of him -- but it wasn’t fog, nor was it quite dust. Miniscule white, reflective slivers seemed to gather together to form something corporeal before his eyes. The raindrops sent small ripples through them. Flecks of them each faded in and out of colours, but he could barely make them out as they changed quickly in the far off orange glow of the cemetery lights. They rustled in the air like leaves and shone in the light like dust.

A shiver shot down from his shoulders to his wrists, his arms tingling with goosebumps; a sudden, sharp breath forced its way into his lungs. Everything in him told him to get away. His feet stepped back bit by bit, gravel rolling under his feet, his eyes fixed on the strange, gathering cloud reaching out to him. He tried to form words, but the breath he took shook out of him in a rattle. “Wh-ha-a--” he started saying before he ran. His runners slipped on the dampness of the grass as he huffed his way up the hill to the oak tree, its branches open as if to offer him sanctuary.

He swivelled around, hoping to have left whatever it was he thought he saw behind, but the wisp swirled and regathered itself again. He stepped back too far this time, and next he knew, he was falling. The sky above, suddenly within his view, was dark and starless like an endless abyss. He hit the ground with a great thump and a groan. His elbows dug into the dirt; his shoe caught on one of the oak’s worm-like roots. His fingers digging into the earth, he scrambled backwards, still huffing and desperate. The whitish form was like thousands of tiny fish swimming to form one smoky image. More joined it, gathering together to form something larger and more imposing.

Jean stammered, eyes wide and darting. His fingernails met bark as he pushed himself into a corner, stuck between this figure and the tree. He was trapped. A sliver of thought in him hoped that he was dreaming. He’d merely sat down outside the cemetery, head in his hands as it had been for several days, and fallen asleep there. But Jean knew the difference between reality and a dream, and no matter how much he hoped he was seeing things, what he now saw -- he could feel it in the pit of his stomach -- was real.

The white seemed to come together to form a hand. Four fingers and a thumb in a luminescent, transparent hand reached out for him. It jittered and fluttered in the breeze that rushed by. Raindrops still tapped upon Jean’s shoes.  
One word finally escaped from his throat as the hand narrowed in on him. One breathy, quiet, empty word. “Fuck!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... until next chapter.
> 
> I have been waiting to get to this chapter from the very beginning. There is so much packed into it that I had to double check that I got it all in.
> 
> \---
> 
> If you liked this and would like to share it, you can find the Tumblr post [here](http://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/post/110535171202/see-you-when-you-get-here-chapter-3-foxberry).
> 
> I would love to hear your feedback here or you can also find me on [Tumblr](https://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](http://twitter.com/foxberryblue) or on my writing only blog [Foxberry Writes](http://foxberrywrites.tumblr.com/).


	4. The Apparition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _[ Jean’s face drew up into a mixture of abject horror and pleasant surprise, his expression somewhere between a smile and a scream. The uncertainty kept him still and silent as he stared. The air felt drier now that the rain had stopped. Jean licked his lips repeatedly. His throat seemed to feel like it was closing on him. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His body resolved his dilemma for him, coughing out a series of small, erratic laughs like those of a man going mad. ]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italian and French translations at the end.

**\- Just over a year ago -**

 

Chatter rose up around Jean when he reached the town square. The large, open space of stone clinked and scuffled under the heels of hundreds that rushed past him, as he stood somewhat bewildered in the southwest corner. He felt self-conscious standing there, peering around like a lost child. A group of women to his left chatted in a huddle amongst the pedestrian flow and gazed at him in suspicion whenever he shuffled in place. Jean sighed at their incessant screams of excitement.

He had been standing there for ten minutes already. Impatience gnawed at his twitching ankles as much as the tensing of his stomach. It felt it had been too long, but it had only been a couple days. _He should be here_ , Jean thought. His eyes searched the square. _He’s not... Where is he?_ Marco was almost always the early one. Jean couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever had to wait for him. He assumed it had something to do with being an early riser.

A firm hand grabbed his shoulder. Jean jolted and let out a raspy yell. He spun around to find himself facing a panting Marco, half bent over in exhaustion, pulling down on Jean with his grasp. Any anger dissipated in the wake of Jean’s concern. “You all right?”

When Jean truly took in the sight before him, his eyebrows jumped and his eyelids blinked. Though bent rather awkwardly before him, Marco looked nonetheless dashing in the rich navy of the Trost Police uniform, hat tucked under his arm. The clothes were wrinkled around the elbows and just a tad long around the ankles, but when Marco stood up with an embarrassed smile, Jean could not deny the uniform was made for him.

Feeling suddenly self-conscious, he found himself somewhat underdressed in a grey tank, maroon hoodie, and brown cargo pants. All those colours were dark and bland next to Marco. Even the shoes on his feet were only sandals, worn and scarred when compared to the shine of Marco’s boots. If he had known, he might have dressed a little better, and less like he was Marco’s perp.

Marco pulled Jean into an embrace with his hand on Jean’s shoulder. Their chests thumped together as they met. Jean’s arm wrapped around Marco and held him close. It felt so long since their last one, making Jean determined to have this last as long as he could make it. Marco’s hand rubbed up and down his back roughly, his laughter tickling Jean’s ear. They ended the hug with mutual pats on each other’s backs.

“Sorry, sorry,” Marco apologised breathily, finally removing his hand to check the hat was still under his arm. A defensive look flashed across Marco’s face. His lips pulled into an awkward, apologetic smile. “Mama wanted photos, and Luca almost wouldn’t let me leave.” Jean expected as much. Marco almost never visited with his uniform.

Jean laughed in short bursts of air, only a breath away from scoffing. He delved his hands into his pockets to keep them from fidgeting in his nervousness. “It’s hardly surprising. You’re barely ever home anymore.”

“Yeah, but you still hear from me.” Marco crossed his arms. His stance was defensive but his face betrayed him with a smile. His left eyebrow quirked up expectantly for Jean’s answer.

Jean muttered, almost defeated by the expression Marco always pulled when he so politely demanded a response. “I suppose.” Jean could never refuse him anything, and Marco knew, whether he admitted it or not. “If you visited more often, we wouldn’t be so inclined to keep you here,” Jean teased. Images of him convincing Marco to stay and hide in his bedroom flashed in the back of his mind. Part of him was completely serious in wanting to keep Marco at home.

“You’ve met my mother, right?” Marco laughed nervously and scratched behind his ears. His eyes caught Jean’s and blinked slowly, deliberately. “Do you honestly think she wouldn’t try to keep me here if I visited more often?”  
  
Jean chuckled and rubbed his chin. “True.” Rosa Bodt existed for her children. Every major event had a photo. Every photo had its album. Several dinners at the Bodt household had ended with the traditional sharing of the embarrassing photos of Marco’s childhood. Jean had always found it endearing, but Marco was always embarrassed about having his photo taken. Jean didn’t understand why.

“There’s just so much going on at the moment…” Marco tried to find the words to justify himself. Every word out of his mouth sounded sad, defensive, and apologetic. “Even Annie’s feeling the pressure. You know I’d be here at least once a month if I could manage it.” Marco’s smile changed to a forced one that didn’t reach his eyes. Their gaze fell to the ground where they lingered on Jean’s shoes.

Jean nodded in spite of himself. His voice crept up out of him in uncertainty. “I know. It’s just…”  Maybe he had crossed a line that he didn’t know was there. With a sigh, Jean peered around him. The bustling of the square hadn’t calmed down in the moments that had passed. People seemed to blur as the pair of them stood there avoiding each other’s eyes in the white noise of the crowd.

“Oh, hey,” Marco spoke up with a brightness in his voice. He lifted his hat up to his head and placed it delicately atop it, tufts of hair stubbornly poking out from underneath. “How’s it look?”

A huff-like laugh resounded in the air and melted into a series of small chuckles. Jean raised an eyebrow, smirking at him. “You trying hard for compliments now?”

“Come on, Jean,” Marco sighed, failing to sound frustrated. His voice was too light and full of amusement to give off a serious air. His careful hand reached up and tugged at the brim of his hat with a flush of pink across his cheeks. His eyes avoided Jean’s, his sense of self-consciousness showing in the raising of his shoulders.

Jean rolled his eyes and forced out a loud sigh to signal his surrender, though it had hardly been a battle. He twirled his finger in the air as instruction when he commanded, “Turn around.”

Marco turned to oblige him. He spun awkwardly, paying close attention to the walkers nearby that peered over with bemused interest at his peculiar movement in the bustle. Jean hummed in thought and approval, but said nothing to Marco’s awaiting raised eyebrows. “Well?” Marco finally asked.

Jean pressed his lips together and dragged his bottom lip across his teeth, giving it thought. He peered up at Marco with a glint in his eye, speaking as seriously as he could manage. “Your butt doesn’t look big in it,” he offered with a flick of his wrist. Laughter bubbled in his throat, held back by pressed lips trying not to smile.

Marco made a strangled, surprised squeak and spoke quickly. “Jean! You were looking at my ass.” Hat swept off his head and held in his grasp, he dropped his hands to his sides. His eyes flitted through the audience, suddenly aware of how loudly he had expressed himself. A nervous chuckle broke his moment of silence and it gave way to a quiet, accusative stare -- his eyes narrowed suspiciously, his lips pulled taut.

Jean waited intentionally with a smile and tilted head, and shrugged when he locked eyes with Marco again. “You asked how it looked. That was just part of the view.” His eyes shone with mischief. He could always trust in Marco to take the bait. True to his form, Marco simply shook his head with an amused smirk. Tucking his hat under his arm again, he crossed his arms over his chest, unimpressed. Jean inclined his head forward and asserted, “It suits you.”

Marco scratched his ear, the same way he always did when he had a thought that embarrassed him. Even as a child, he would always fiddle with his ear when he was unsure. His white teeth peeked through his lips. “I thought you’d better see it. I’ve forgotten every other time I’ve been down.” The collar moved ever so slightly when he drew up his shoulders. Wrinkles teased at the edges of the uniform as he shuffled, apparently uncomfortable under Jean’s gaze. Nevertheless, it still appeared as pressed and new as if he just put it on.

“You’re heading back up today?” Jean kicked his shoe at the ground. Streaks of brown and flecks of shimmery white broke up the rectangular stone. His shoe scratched against the rough tiles laid out beneath him. It held such interest to him at that moment, when he felt his chest tighten and his breath was held.

His voice drained and flat, Marco slowly answered, “Yeah. The rest of February’s going to be hectic.”

“So… you got time for coffee…?” Jean looked up, hopeful, with raised eyebrows and hands fiddling in his pockets.

His head shook slightly like it was a question Jean needn’t have asked. “Always.” Marco nodded and warned, “The good stuff this time.” It put Jean at ease. Suddenly he had Marco to himself, despite the crowd. With so much distance and time between them, Jean had become eager, almost possessive of whatever time he could pry from Marco’s busy schedule.

“Heaven forbid,” Jean muttered when they left together, walking in step.

Marco had a way of keeping his feet in time with Jean’s. It could never last for long. Marco’s longer gait always won over his attempt to keep the same pace. The awkward shuffle always caught Jean’s breath, somewhere between amusement and appreciation. Marco’s attempt lasted until they finally sat down on a park bench outside the cafe. Jean leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, cup clutched between both hands. A calm silence fell between them. Sitting relaxedly to Jean’s left, Marco made the uniform look soft, more comfortable than it likely was.

“So how are things with you?” Marco inquired. He pressed the lid of the cup to his lips in thought and, taking a drink, his gaze turned to Jean.

Jean followed in kind. The coffee was welcome on his tongue, the sweet, rich roast washing over it. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling even through his sip. The heat seeped into his fingers that were curled around the cup, afraid to let it go. He relaxed his shoulders. “Mom’s eased up on the baking.”

“What have you made her worry about now?” A chuckle drew Jean’s eye from his coffee to Marco’s. It rested easily in his right hand. Somehow it seemed to float there, like holding his cup was so effortless with the strength of his arms that he could let go and it would remain in the air.

Jean almost choked on his next sip. His tongue became sore from the sudden influx of heat he had not been ready for. “Nothing I swear!”

“Mmhmm. Yes, I’m sure.” Marco smirked and wrinkled his nose teasingly. Hardly a fitting look for a cop in uniform. Something about the way he sat -- straight-backed, relaxed shoulders, left arm resting on the armrest -- put Jean at ease. It was like he needn’t worry about Marco, because he always managed to sort himself out.

Changing the subject, Jean sighed an explanation. “Work’s been a nightmare.” His tone dropped, bland and softer. The left side of his lip tugged upward in a flash of regret at bringing up the topic.

Marco turned to him, resting his right leg on the park bench. He rested his other arm on the back and concentrated on Jean with furrowed brows. “How so?”

“Some asshole broke in, stole enough to keep them happy a good long while. Could’ve used you, probably.” His shoulders shrugged. He recalled the details, staring at the wood by Marco’s knees as if he was reading it out to him. A passive-aggressive tone tainted his words. Not having Marco there had made it stressful, but Jean couldn’t bring himself to pick up the phone and bother him at the time. He didn’t want to be that guy.

“Diamonds? Gold?” Marco didn’t seem to notice Jean’s tone. He placed his coffee down on the space between them. Cop Marco sat before him, his voice stern but concerned. The Marco of his childhood had disappeared.

“Whatever they could get their hands on. There’s still glass everywhere.” Jean gestured vaguely in the air. He didn't know exactly. They hadn’t touched his department, but they’d put a large enough hole in the glass to crawl through.

“No wonder Vivi was baking. When did this happen?” He shuffed his weight, leaning closer.

“Oh, about a week or so ago.” Jean’s voice rose, dismissive in tone, but giving away the underlying concern that Marco would not respond well.

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” His cup hit the bench. It toppled, and his coffee fell over, forgotten. Its contents leaked through the lopsided lid, dripping through wooden slats to the ground.

“You weren’t even on your way here and it’s not exactly pressing news. It’s fine.” A small rush of air, scarcely a laugh, betrayed his attempt at a calm explanation. It was the truth, but Jean knew it was no more than excuses. Something about the way concern sat on Marco’s face made Jean uncomfortable.

Marco had drawn himself onto the bench completely. “Were you there when they --”

Jean interrupted quickly to dispel the shock in Marco’s voice. “No, no. It was overnight. I have no idea what the security guards thought they were doing. Bertholdt didn’t have any explanation for it.” His throat felt taut. He never liked the feeling he was making Marco worry about him. He took so much upon himself, which always made Jean feel guilty. He never wanted to be the one to compound that.

“Surveillance cameras?” Marco blurted.

“Nothing on them.” Closing his eyes, Jean shook his head. He shrugged again. Crime happened. It was a jewellery store, it wasn’t its first burglary, and no one was hurt. No one was going to hold them up like a bank when they could just smash their way in.

“Did they find out anything?” Marco leaned against the bench. Finally he noticed the coffee and set it upright. Pink crept across his cheeks. Jean always found it entertaining that he would get carried away like that. For the first time, he became aware he was sitting before a man who was a bona fide police officer.

“Marco, I’m fine. Everyone’s fine. Well, Erwin’s not happy, obviously, and Hanji considers herself a super sleuth now. It’s being taken care of.” He reached out and placed a hand on Marco’s shoulder. He hoped the gesture would console him.

Marco scanned the footpath before he demanded, “How are you just okay with this? What if you had been there?” His voice rose this time. Like his mother’s voice, it erred on the edge of scolding. Nothing could hide his disappointment.

Jean pointed at the blue uniform. “Cause I’m not a cop.” Jean gestured wildly in the air again, in amused frustration this time. “Stop doing your job and just sit here with me. Your coffee… or whatever's left…” His eyes looked down at the cup before him. “... Will get cold, and I paid good money for that espresso.”

Marco’s eyes looked momentarily downcast, yet he picked up his coffee with a hint of a smile. Nodding to Jean knowingly, he took a long, exaggerated sip. “And I can taste every cent.”

“Oh, so the snob approves.” Jean shuffled back in an exaggerated manner. A toothy grin hovered over his cup. He chuckled, sniffing at it in a mockery of Marco’s taste.

“It’s passable.” Marco tilted his cup with a thoughtful frown. He took a long look at it before peering up at Jean.

“And you call me an ass,” Jean retorted flatly.

Marco winked. “I’ve got to get it from somewhere.” His tone was as full of mockery as Jean’s.

“Such a charmer,” Jean joked. His light-hearted laugh stopped when he saw a thought cross Marco’s face.

Smiling, though not in his eyes, Marco turned to sit comfortably on the bench, appearing rather stiff for a moment. “You know, I’d stay longer if I could.” Jean cleared his throat in response. Mimicking his posture, Jean merely nodded in understanding. “It shouldn’t be much longer until the real work will begin.” Marco laughed. It seemed throatier this time. He sounded so serious. A tinge of hope for the future lingered in his voice. In a sudden change, desperate to sound happy again, he pushed up his sleeve and pointed at an elongated yellow and purple bruise on his right arm. “Oh! See this? Self-defense training. Guess who I had as partner again?”

“Don’t tell me…” Jean closed his eyes and huffed. He knew the answer.

Marco nodded, turning over his arm thoughtfully. “Annie never misses. She takes it seriously, even if they have to force her into participating.”

Delicate and careful, Jean reached out to test the bruise. It looked painful. At the lightest of caresses, Marco winced, dragging air in past his teeth. Jean pulled a face, tensing with him, silently mouthing ‘sorry,’ at which Marco dismissively shook his head.

The words left Jean as soon as his fingers lifted. “What the hell did she do?”

“She chose the baseball bat.” He spoke matter of factly. His hand brushed over the bruise and he laughed a little to himself.

“What? Who uses a baseball bat?” Jean didn’t understand how it was funny. Nevertheless, amusement rang in his voice. Marco’s insistence on being friendly, even friends, with Annie confused him. She never sounded happy or pleased to be anywhere.

“We’re talking about Annie here,” stated Marco, as though that said enough on its own.

“Point taken. From what you’ve told me she’s quite… ” Jean huffed and trailed off. It wasn’t his place to say.

Marco declined to comment and merely agreed. “Yeah…”

A silence grew between them. They fiddled with their cups, both of which were running low. Finally, Marco asked nonchalantly. “How is everyone else doing?”

“Yeah, they’re all good.” Jean didn’t want to talk about others. Not today. There was little to say there.

Marco began laughing to himself. The cup got crushed in his fist. He shuffled over with a large grin on his face. He slipped his arm over Jean’s shoulders. “Does Eren still call you ‘horse’?”

Groaning, Jean shoved Marco away half-heartedly. “Do you want coffee in your face? Because that’s where this is going.”

Marco simply laughed harder. It carried on to his next words. “I really should be going. I’ve got a lot to pack.”

Jean leaned forward and scratched his brow. He grunted as he reluctantly pushed himself up to stand. He could have sat here for hours, talking about the days gone by, but life had an aptitude for getting in the way.

Marco’s feet hit the ground with a sense of purpose. He could always push himself onward whenever he felt it was required of him. “Come here, you dork.” Arms up, he signaled for Jean to come to him. Jean sighed, rolling his eyes, and stepped forward to embrace him, then back again. Marco’s hand lingered on his shoulder.

Marco leaned forward and, making a small kissing sound, he pressed his right cheek against Jean’s own. He pulled his head back and repeated the gesture, pressing his left cheek against Jean’s. He placed a final kiss on Jean’s right. This time his lips brushed across Jean’s cheek lightly before he kissed the air again. A series of three cheek kisses. An Italian greeting Marco always insisted upon to say goodbye, and one Jean could never say no to.

Jean watched Marco walk away after they parted. He laughed and smiled and waved goodbye, ever the image of an officer of the law.

 

* * *

  

 **\- Present Day -**  

 

Breath catching in his throat, Jean fixated upon the hand reaching out to him. Its spindly fingers caught glints of orange from the cemetery lights. It felt as though they had curled around his neck and squeezed, forcing him into silence.

The bark between his fingers scratched its way under his nails as he reached down to the ground, cold and damp from the rain. His fingers dug into the soil, trying to grasp for the sense of reality that Jean felt he was losing. His eyes flicked down, still wide in fear, hoping to see something to settle his yearning for the rational. His surprise at the feeling in his hand manifested in one single flicker of thought: _It’s raining_. Yet the words that escaped his mouth, almost as if they came from somewhere else outside of him, were no more than a long string of mumbled curses. Jean hardly knew what he was saying.

His arms dove back up, behind him. Dirt flew up, scattering itself across him. His hands barely found their grasp on the _bark_ wall he found himself backed up against. When he tried to move, the roots dug into his legs like broken bones, pressing in sharply. His knees shook when he struggled to stand. They lost their will quickly and collapsed, leaving Jean unable to look away and scurrying backwards aimlessly on his elbows, forced to stare at the ghostly apparition. His shoes caught on the tree roots. The ground itself slanted away. If only he could fall away from this _thing_ as quickly as the ground did from him.

The specks of light dimmed under the shadow of the tree. The arm grew and swirled and built itself up into a semblance of a human form. A torso, broad and square, arms thick and imposing, but a face with just the outline of features. Silent and gentle, white feet stepped before Jean. A scratchy scream leaped from him when he saw it an inch from his shoes. Its body formed together painfully slowly, shining with a dim glimmer as it passed beneath the shadow of the oak tree. Orange faded away and the remaining white morphed into a dark blue, just visible to Jean’s straining eyes.

His throat kept swallowing, trying futilely to keep the fear in his stomach, where it churned and roiled. He gasped dryly for air, crawling backwards on scraped arms and shoe heels. Despite the pain, he pushed on.

The apparition had four limbs now, and a blank face, constantly moving in the darkness. Its human form looked malformed and unfinished, rough around the edges. Ears formed from more clusters of specks. A faint shudder ran over them all as it moved with unmistakable footsteps, each determined to reach Jean, its hands outreached to grab at him.

The pattering of the rain hit his face when he cleared the canopy of the tree. It had lessened, now barely more than a drizzle, but drops still rolled down his face. In his effort to get away, Jean groaned from deep in his chest like a wounded animal. His eyes began to sting. He was too afraid to close them and risk the thing catching up to him. His aching legs dragged over rock and root, twigs snapping beneath his weight.

With a grunt, he twisted his body to turn himself over, shoes kicking and digging into the grass for leverage. His right slipped when it tried to catch his weight, and he hit the ground face first. His eyes barely closed in time. There was a wet thud when his arm went out from under him and he landed heavily on his other shoulder. Mud smeared across his face, he pushed himself up again, spitting out dirt with disgust. He scrambled onto his knees again, trying to push himself up with only one arm free and finding balance difficult. His efforts to stand again were hindered by the slip of the grass and the soft give of the ground. He managed to briefly put most of his weight on his feet, but he merely scuttled forward. His cry was hoarse and breathy, bubbling behind the welling tears and the swelling of his throat.

Once he finally succeeded, he hurtled forward toward the safety of a new tree. Its branches were low-hanging and shrouded the ground in a darker shadow. He brushed his fingers over the trunk. It was solid. He could still feel everything around him. He could still hear the sound of cars in the distance. He’d just happened to see _that_. Jean nodded to himself in affirmation, far more than necessary, and pressed himself back against the tree bark. Eyes stinging, he watched as the light shower shook blades of grass. The light caught their edges with every movement, but at times it looked as if there was nothing but shadow.

He blinked his eyes closed tightly; his hand grasped blindly onto the tree. Its rough texture against his skin grounded him. He rubbed his hand over it again and again, seeking reassurance that he could still feel, that he was still awake. His body drew itself up into a ball. His knees tucked themselves underneath his chin and his arms wrapped around his knees. His eyes opened to the view of dark wings fluttering before his face. He tensed, his body suddenly stiff. Too terrified to scream, he bit his tongue and grasped his knee. He huffed through his nose when the moth landed on his cheek, brushing against him with the tips of its wings.  
“Get off,” he whispered with more breath than he knew he had. He swiped at it desperately. It obliged after three more attempts and disappeared into the darkness.

He peered off the way he came. Or the way he thought he came. Trees spotted the ground around him. The street lights glowed in all directions. He didn't know which way was which, except that the thing was behind him. His eyes caught the glimpse of a glimmer in the trees and he sprinted, rocketing off from his position. A series of moths scattered in his wake.

He reached the next tree and leaned against it. The warm glow of the lights sent his shadow running across the grass like a dark figure. He squinted out into the clearing at the their glare, bright and blinding in the darkness. He could see the grave in the distance, fresh jonquils still placed before it.

The wind picked up and a chill set in the air. Jean’s hair rustled as he ran again. Moths on their way to the lamp he passed under dispersed before him, swirling in their fruitless pursuit.

His lungs ached in the wild dash to who knew where. For a moment he swore he could hear his name despite the wind rushing in his ears. His stomach dropped like a stone in a pond. He shook his head and blinked, trying to push it out of his mind. There was nothing to hear but the wind and the crickets, singing his demise. The chirping echoed in his ears, becoming all he could focus on beyond the loud beating of his heart. His eyes stared, still stinging and watching the approaching grave.

His feet pushed with every step. His desperation came out in heavy, laboured breaths, gasping through his mouth like he’d forgotten how to breathe. The wind sighed around him and the rain began to slow. A dip in the path before him sent him stumbling forward. Too tired to stand fully and weak from the chill down his spine, his knees hit the ground with a great thud and he fell before the headstone. Marco’s name was chiseled in shadow before his face. The shadow of a moth flew across it, its silhouette pitch black when his eyes caught sight of it. Its wings appeared far too fast, as if the world were slowing to a stop.

Water from the grass soaked through to his knees, the only part of him still willing to hold him up. His back slumped down, too afraid to hold itself up any further. He pushed himself feebly over and landed heavily before the headstone. Facing it, he took in the sight of the figure, now looking more human, more in colour than before, but no more solid. He could still make out the tree through its approaching form.

He gulped down the fear clamouring in his throat, his breathing now sobs. Crickets’ chirps around him grew quieter with every step the being took.

He had run, but not escaped. His eyes or his mind had betrayed him, surely. Some warped stage of grief. Jean had no history of hallucinations. He could still feel. He was almost entirely sure he was still awake and he wasn’t dreaming, yet this nightmare played out before him in near silence. Who would hear him if he screamed? How would he ever explain this to anyone? This dark, empty feeling that something was going to happen to him grew in his chest. His hands would not stop shaking.

He could feel the tears coming, welling up in his eyes. The orange glow around him now seemed harsh, a beacon of false hope. He dragged his hands down his face. Surely this was how Marco felt. Is this what he did in his last moments? Alone, helpless, and uncertain of whether he would get out of the situation alive. Did he have long enough to even ponder as Jean did? Cornered and assuming his end was coming, Jean couldn’t imagine being anywhere else, except right here with Marco. With a deep breath, he hunched his shoulders up and leant back against the headstone.

The swirling in the being stopped, and a clearer image began to form. The outreached hand turned browner, the fingers somehow more gentle, softer, in appearance. A voice carried on the wind as a whisper. “Jean?” The dark blue swarmed together, and colour cascaded over it from head to toe. Eyes formed and lips parted. It suddenly came into focus; confused tears brimmed in Jean’s eyes at what he saw. He laughed, scoffing in disbelief, and shook his head furiously. He was going mad. Surely he could not be seeing this. But no matter how hard he tried, with every cautious step forward and every hesitation, with every direction that his eyes darted, there was no mistaking that this was the spitting image of Marco. Even the voice that called out again with an uncertain but concerned “Jean?” was his. It was too good to be true.

He looked just as he had the last time he ever saw him: dressed in his blue uniform, hat hair despite having brushed it aside, and that same look from when he got caught up in his concern for Jean, spilling his coffee in the process. He wanted so desperately to believe that this was that same Marco.

Jean’s face drew up into a mixture of abject horror and pleasant surprise, his expression somewhere between a smile and a scream. The uncertainty kept him still and silent as he stared. The air felt drier now that the rain had stopped. Jean licked his lips repeatedly. His throat seemed to feel like it was closing on him. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. His body resolved his dilemma for him, coughing out a series of small, erratic laughs like those of a man going mad.

“Right. Perfect. Yes.” He shook his head madly. His hands grasped for his hair. “Of course, yes, that’s …” The tears brimming in his eyes fell down his face. “Fucking perfect, isn’t it? I’m going mad.” He laughed again, hoarsely, as if there were no more air in his lungs. Jean was hardly surprised. They ached, his stomach tensed, and his body refused to relax even one muscle if it meant self-preservation.

He’d expected to deal with grief like everyone else. Perhaps more badly than the others seemed to be taking it, but he had never thought of this. How was he going to explain this to the others without their eyebrows shooting up and rumours starting to spread under the guise of concern? He was losing it. He was going to sit here, terrified, until the horror caught up with him or the sun came out, whichever came sooner.

Jean’s eyes squinted and he smiled through the tears. Their salty taste lingered on his lips. “You’re not really here, right Marco?” He covered his eyes. “I’m just seeing this. How typical. Just what I need.” He drew his hand across his face again, pressing hard. He slapped it against the side of his head with a great clap, but the vision before him remained.

Marco drew closer slowly, and leaned forward. “Jean, you can see me?” His eyes were still as warm and brown as they had even been. When he blinked, the specks seemed to solidify and hold themselves together. Jean kept crying, or laughing. He could no longer tell the difference after all the tears he had shed in the past few days. He didn’t want to dare hope he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. Marco knelt before him, hands resting on his right knee as they always did. His eyes searched over Jean with worry. Marco never could stop himself from worrying. Jean bit his lip and let the tears fall, but refused to close his eyes. His left hand reached out for Marco’s face. He was so close, so within his reach.

Yet as Jean’s fingers found his face, the specks swirled and moved, leaving a hole where Marco’s cheek had been, the trees behind him becoming visible. Jean shuddered and withdrew his hand like he’d been stung. The specks swarmed back into place. His face was full again, as if it had always been that way.  
“Are you okay, Jean?” Marco’s voice sounded like the fluttering of wings and chirping of crickets but held all the same warmth that Jean knew in his voice. A hundred whispers that all sounded with the same hint of an accent and smile as in Marco’s voice. The one Jean remembered most clearly. Jean took a deep breath in and simply looked into his eyes. He seemed so real. “Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”

Jean nodded quickly and with vigour. Words tangled in their rush to answer him and fell into a whisper. “How are you here?”

Marco bit his lip and pondered, gazing through him for a second or two. He shrugged and murmured weakly, his voice little more than a breath on the wind. “Because you need me?"

Jean stared, confused. One of his hands reached back to touch the headstone. The stone felt coarse against his skin. It was the first time he was relieved to find it still there. The words spluttered from him. “What is… this? What are you? Are you even _you_?"

Marco's face contorted, pulled down into a frown, brow wrinkled in apprehension. His voice rose up high, but the whispers remained. “Of course I’m me!" He stepped back, shocked, looking over himself with hands out to his sides.

"Marco…" Jean began, trying to reassure himself, even remind himself, "you’re dead." He moved forward and gestured to the headstone behind him with a thumb. His other hand on it traced across the stone again.

Marco nodded, eyes closed. “I know." When he opened them again, tears had pooled in his eyes.

"What do you mean you know?" Jean demanded, his voice on the verge of cracking. It only grew louder as he continued. "This is fucked up. What the fuck is this? You can’t be here." He could feel denial all over again. First he had doubted Marco was really dead, and now he doubted it all over again but with Marco's face right in front of him. Anger grew within him, all of it aimed at himself.

“Well I’m here." Marco placed his hand over his heart. Or, Jean reminded himself, where his heart was once. He couldn’t be sure which parts of Marco were still there.

"But are you?" Jean blinked away the tears welling in his eyes. His voice squeaked when he yelled, throwing the words and all his doubts at him. "Are you really?!"

Marco stepped back. Tears traced down his face; he looked hurt. They erased the colour from his cheeks like water on paint before Marco wiped them away, his face returning to normal. He pressed his lips together. His face looked pained. “I am here. I was here. Where were you?”

“What?" Jean looked up, eyebrows furrowed. The expression melted away, leaving a frown in its wake.

Marco drew in a sharp breath and stammered, “You weren’t here this morning?" His eyes refused to meet Jean's. He appeared his most human in that moment. There was still a spark of the Marco he knew in the way he declined Jean’s attention.

Jean whispered, “What?” out into the dark. It was hardly loud enough to hear, but the crickets around them seemed to have stopped their singing.

Marco shrugged, self-conscious. Jean had trouble telling if he was human. He certainly looked it. He sounded like it.

“How do you even know I --" Jean stopped himself. The guilt hit him. "Look, I…"

“It’s fine." Marco squatted before him. The orange gleam caught his dark hair.

“It’s not fine. I should’ve been there. I mean, I saw a lot of it. I didn’t hear it, but I was here. I swear. Kind of…" The words tumbled out of him. His voice was left shaky when he finally stopped them. Jean hung his head in shame. “Were you here this whole time?

“Yeah… it almost killed me.” He searched the ground around them with his eyes. Marco sobbed a laugh. Jean choked on air. “Oh right, yeah, sorry. I’m still getting used to this.” His hands turned over in front of him, just a fraction of a second too fast for all the specks to remain as one. It made Jean’s stomach churn.

Jean’s fingers curled into the grass. Wet and cold, the droplets of rain upon them set a chill in his fingers. “Is that why you asked if I could see you?” His eyes seemed to sting again when he peered up at Marco hovering over him, yet he couldn’t bear to close them.

“Yeah… No one else could…” Marco’s hands gestured in a circle, marking the places all the attendees had stood. Jean couldn’t look away from his face. The muscles around his mouth twitched between a smile and a frown, as if unsure of what Marco wanted to express. “I tried everything, but I couldn’t get very far.” He looked at his legs, a look of hopelessness flickering across his face.

“Guess that makes me special.” Jean joined Marco in staring at his legs and thought aloud, “I wonder why…” He huffed and sheepishly looked up at Marco, his warm breath twirling in the air before his face.

“Look, it’s fine. I understand. I just wish I could’ve seen you sooner. But hey…” His voice was warm and struggling to sound happy and unbroken. He shrugged away the sorrow in his tone and laughed with a forced smile, trying to make light of it. “We both get to see each other.”

Jean gave a curt nod. A little smile tugged at the corner of his lips, if only for a moment. “It’s been a while, yeah.” He looked off into the distance. Moths circled orange lights in the distance. Even from here he could make out their dance, swirling and twirling in the sky. Their shadows met together for a brief moment like a kiss before they went their separate ways.

They sat there together for a while in silence and watched the darkness of the sky turn the pale blue of an early morning. Jean sat contently, happy to let the hours run past him, to watch the light fade and grow, to watch Marco. He never wanted to leave.  
  
“It’s not quite like old times.” Marco called out, running the words across his tongue like he was tasting them. “I’m somewhat more…” He adjusted his weight, eyes running the length of his body.

Jean raised his hand to stop him from continuing. “Not another joke, please. My heart can’t take it.”

Marco nodded. “Well, I’d help you up if I could, but this thing happens…” He reached out for Jean’s arm. As his fingers neared Jean’s skin, getting close enough to touch, the specks separated and split, making it appear as if Marco’s fingers smoothly bent themselves backwards. Jean shook, his arms trembling in the air, and gaped, horrified, at the fingers returning to their original form. “So, get your butt off the ground, you dork.”

Jean smiled and stood timidly, staring at Marco and blinking hard. He was still convinced this couldn’t be real. It was far past midnight by now, and Marco was standing before him. He might not have been flesh and blood, but he was light and sound and that was more than enough for him. Jean was willing to go along with this right now. He crossed his arms and held himself, wishing he could embrace Marco, taking the frustration out on himself by squeezing his own arms. If this was losing his mind, he was ready to step off the edge of sanity if it meant more time with him.

“I don’t really need to sit down but …” Marco waved him over toward a park bench in the distance.

Jean followed him, a step or two behind. For once, Marco didn’t try to slow down to walk in step. It almost felt wrong. “How long…?”

“Hmm?” Marco turned around, peering over his shoulder, but continued walking forward. The specks swirled, but only briefly.

Jean gulped. He had forgotten for a moment that Marco wasn’t quite the Marco he remembered. “How long have you been… here?”

Marco turned to face forward again and hummed. He turned back again, appearing concerned. “I honestly don’t know. All I know is I found myself standing here with everyone looking at my casket.”

A chill ran down Jean’s spine. Marco had a way of saying things that cut through the air. This hadn’t changed. He had never felt more uncomfortable than right now. Every step closer felt like one he could not take back. Even as he took his seat on the bench and Marco sat beside him, he felt he should be running as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

“I’ve no coffee to spill this time.” Marco smiled, revealing that this version of him apparently had teeth, too. Jean forgot the world and all his words. Marco filled the silence for him after another sympathetic smile. “So… how are… things?”  
  
Jean snapped back into focus with a blink of his eyes. “Things? Oh, well...” He shuffled in place, eyes distracted by how Marco managed to sit on the bench in that form. “Work is pretty normal.” His head turned to think and a frown formed on his face. His voice was flat, trying desperately to not show a hint of the emotions bubbling in his throat. “Everyone misses you, but you saw that.”

Marco doesn’t move. He merely answers with a firm and quiet, “Yes.”

Jean tried his best to look comfortable, but every position he held felt and likely looked awkward. Marco didn’t seem to notice. “What about you? H-how were things for you?” Jean clenched his teeth when he realised he used past tense.

Marco chuckled. The warm glow caught a shimmer in his eyes. It outlined his profile, his eyes focused off into the distance as if he could see his memories there. “Annie got really into it. She was suddenly so much more interested, and actually listened intently -- would you believe it? -- when I talked about work.”  
  
“Well, shit.” Jean crossed his arms.

“I’d never seen her so motivated before. It was nice.” Marco glanced over to throw a smile Jean’s way and turned back. “We even started going out for coffee.”

“ _Mon dieu. Non_.” Jean mocked. “That can’t be true. The bitter bitch likes coffee?”

“Jean! _Basta_!” Marco warned, side-glancing at him with an exaggerated scowl. “You don’t know her like I do.”  
  
“No, but I met her,” Jean teased and shrugged, regretting immediately the memory he brought to mind. That entire day in bed. The way she had stood outside his door and heard him break down.  
  
Marco leaned back against the bench, unable to hide his surprise and amusement. “Really?” He looked Jean up and down. “That must have gone well.”  
  
“As well as you seemed to do with her.” Jean spat back with a laugh.

“We were actually doing pretty well.” Marco smiled, but Jean could see the shine on his eyes. “I even got her to laugh. Not just once either.” Marco slunk down into his seat. He perched his right arm atop the bench. “How did that happen?”  
  
Jean squinted and peered up. “I think she came to talk to me.” He closed his eyes and slowly opened them with a sigh. “About you.” Jean caught Marco’s gaze then and didn’t let go.

“Oh,” Marco’s eyes fell briefly. “What did she say?”

Jean bit his lip. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to talk about this right now when it had been so long. This is not how he imagined their reunion. Not for a second. “Just about what happened. She didn’t say much.” Marco took a breath and sighed. Neither of them could look at each other. “What _actually_ happened? I mean… Your mom said one thing and then Annie…”

It took a moment before Jean caught a glimpse of the change in the corner of his eye. The dark made it harder to see when he wasn’t looking directly. Specks from Marco’s right arm began to separate, their connection weakening and curling up his arm, leaving nothing behind. It seemed to spread up into his torso. The pieces all fell away and disappeared into nothingness. Jean followed their trail up to his shoulder and screamed when he saw the same dissolving had begun on his face. Marco’s mouth opened, his face twisted into an expression of concern. The specks separated and dissolved in the air, taking with them the right side of his face. His expression changed with it. His right eye and the right side of his lips were completely gone. His innards were pure, white emptiness, glowing from the jagged edge of what remained. Jean could see completely through where Marco’s right arm, part of his chest, and half of his face had been.

“Marco!” Jean screeched. His mouth hung open and his eyes darted around, unsure of where he should focus, or if he wanted to keep his eyes anywhere for too long.

Marco tilted his head, only making a clear view of the horror before Jean’s eyes. “Hmm?” His arm slowly grew back. Shimmering in white, the specks swirled back into place, right down to his fingers, and changed back into Marco’s colours.

Jean felt like he was going to be sick. He had shrunk back on the park bench, hand behind him for support. Quietly, he asked, “What just happened?” Marco looked over himself, confused. Jean closed his eyes hard and opened them again to check his vision. “Didn’t you see?”

“I just kind of zoned out, and you screamed. I dunno.” He put his right hand up to cover his right eye then stroked it down his face. Despite his face being whole again, Jean’s stomach roiled. “Do we really need to talk about that right now?”

“No, no. We can talk about something else. Um…” Jean looked away, shaking. His fingers dove into his hair and he scratched nervously. He needed to find something to talk about, anything. Something to drive that image from his mind. “Well Sasha has been getting better at drumming. She’s still really annoying and everything. You know what she’s like. You were in the same classes as her for most of high school.”

Jean never considered himself much of a talker. Now he wondered if anyone would expect so many words to come from him. Like a stream of consciousness, they poured out of him. His gestures grew more exaggerated, encouraged by Marco’s smile at his side and the growing fear inside him that if he stopped, he would see _that_ again.

Sunrise began to peek over the horizon. The birds around them began singing. The orange glow of the cemetery lights faded away in the waking of the sun, leaving the swarm of moths to scatter in all directions. Jean could not recall how long he had been sitting here, but the view was beautiful and he could hardly look away.

“Con-man, though.” Jean laughed and threw his head back. His eyes followed the trail of a moth above him into tree nearby. “He was made to be in sales. I swear. He’s living up to the nickname. Erwin’s had to give Levi a higher quota. Not that he minds, but Shortstack has a thing about… things.” Jean pulled a face and chuckled. “Con’s been sending more people my way and been talking up Armin’s designs. I swear if you saw them you’d want one. Hell, I’d probably --” Jean blinked and realised Marco had not said a word for a while. He’d just kept talking and talking in his nervousness, staring up at the sky to hide the colour in his cheeks.

As if he’d been kicked in the ribs, all the air rushed out of Jean’s lungs when he looked to his left. All he found was an empty spot where Marco had been moments ago. Jean blinked, quiet. His hands fell to his sides slowly. Jean cleared his throat. There seemed no point in saying anything now. The new orange that shone over him was warm, peeking over the horizon with a watchful eye. The clouds became more and more blurred the longer he watched them, and when he went to touch his cheek, he found it wet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been particularly hard to write for personal reasons, both in my life and themes in this chapter. I wanted to get it right because this is a very important chapter to me. I hope this was worth the wait.
> 
> Thank you to everyone for your support through the difficult times.
> 
> \---
> 
> French and Italian translation:
> 
>  _Mon dieu. Non._ \- My god. No.  
>  _Basta!_ \- Enough!
> 
> \---
> 
> If you liked this and want to share it, you can find the Tumblr post [here](http://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/post/115212417632/see-you-when-you-get-here-chapter-4-the).
> 
> I would love to hear your feedback here or you can also find me on [Tumblr](https://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](http://twitter.com/foxberryblue) or on my writing only blog [Foxberry Writes](http://foxberrywrites.tumblr.com/).


	5. The Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _[ The sunlight littered the cemetery with the shadows of thousands of leaves, light filtering through the branches of gnarled oak trees. Its contrast with the last night he’d spent on these grounds unsettled him. It seemed too bright for the awkward relief and the choking fear of having lost Marco again. If he ever had even found him again at all, that is. ]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take note this chapter contains a brief scene that depicts the misgendering of a character.
> 
> Italian and French translations at the end.

**\- Two and a half years ago -**

 

The candle flickered in its orange cage of glass, almost a symbol of Jean's palpitating nerves. His hands wrung themselves beneath the wobbly table, unseen in the dim candlelight. Cars driving past flashed the sidewalk with yellow beams of light. The sounds of their wheels streaming past and the chatter of the streetside cafe patrons rose up to mingle in the night air.

"So, they are coming... right?" His voice warbled, his waist twisting to look around him. People walked by their table, down the series of cafes and restaurants lining the streets.

“Well aren't you a bundle of nerves.” Marco’s light chuckle brought his eyes to the man sitting across from him. His arms were crossed over the white satin tablecloth, fingers tapping across his arm. “Relax, Jean.”

Jean sighed. “Oh, shut up.” He was already regretting agreeing to Marco’s suggestion. He didn’t see the need for having to get to know his new work colleague better. He could manage perfectly at work without the socialising outside of work hours.

“It'll be fine. They're just Armin's friends, _va bene_?” Marco’s eyebrows rose with expectation, his voice edging on a patronising tone.

Jean looked away to hide the rolling of his eyes. “Yeah, but do we have to?”

“You work with him. I'm only here because you can't manage to make friends on your own.” Voice cracking with incredulous disbelief, Marco uncrossed his arms and hit the wooden table in frustration, though it was still soft by most people’s standards. He’d never been one to physically express his anger or frustration. Jean had to hold back a smile at the hesitant way Marco’s fist disturbed the plates on the table before he leaned over to fix them all back in place.

Jean scoffed and took his turn to cross his arms. The wooden filigree inset of the metal chair dug into his skin as he wiggled back into his seat, pressing up against the cushion, wishing he could wiggle his way out of this glorified playdate as well. “Come off it. I can too.” He continued to dodge Marco’s gaze, enjoying the way Marco made the effort to catch it again, moving just ever so slightly. He probably wasn’t aware that he was doing it.

“Uh huh.” Out of the corner of his eye he could see Marco nodding, short and exaggerated. There was a certain way he spoke when he disagreed with him. Like he knew better than Jean -- but he almost always did. “You know, I can't always be around when you need someone to hold your hand.” Marco clasped his hands together in mockery, shrugging his shoulders.

“There's Connie. I've known him all through high school.” Jean defended himself, arms loosening themselves from their crossed confines, and rested his elbows on the table, gesturing wordlessly in the air.

Marco rubbed his thumbs on the back of his hands, massaging in thought. His casual posture made it clear he expected no answer from Jean, for he knew the answer already. “But how often do you see him?”

“Whenever he visits at work!” His voice stressed itself more than he expected. He shrank down into his chair, glancing around briefly and avoiding Marco’s subtle smile at his expense. He controlled the timbre of his voice and continued to defend himself, trying to distract from the subject at hand. “Normally with Sasha in tow. I think she likes the shine of the place.”

His attempt failed. Marco saw right through it and persisted, “But how often?”

Jean huffed. “Often enough. He might as well work there.” Ever since Jean had gotten that apprenticeship in high school, Connie had seen to visit him regularly enough. Sasha couldn’t help but tag along for the trip, if only to look at all the shiny things and play Marco’s game again. Those visits were few and far between since they finished high school. Everyone was busy with their own things. It was just something that happened.

Jean could see a sense of pity in his eyes and winced a little. He wasn’t wrong -- Jean could admit that at least -- but the way Marco tilted his head to challenge every word Jean said always rubbed him the wrong way, just a little. Marco shook his head, clearing his throat. “You don't spend much time with him, though. That's my point.”

“Look, they come by and see how I'm doing. That's enough, right?” Jean wasn’t sure he wanted to face the fact Marco was trying to put in his face. He didn’t need all this socialising, all of the pandering and questions. He had Marco and he seemed to be getting on just fine as he was, convinced he didn’t need much more than that. Marco, however, hummed his disagreement in response.

Jean sighed, watching the waiter bring forth a series of plates to the neighbouring table. He retorted an objection, his eyes following each of the plates. “Connie and I catch up and have a laugh. Sasha goes to bother Hanji. They get on like a house on fire.” His eyebrows furrowed and his face contorted as he mumbled, “Though I'm genuinely concerned they might actually set a house on fire...”

“You _need_ to get out more. _Do_ things. _With_ people,” Marco insisted.

“I _do_...” Jean whined his rebuttal.

Marco snorted through his nose. His eyes fluttered closed. Disbelief was all over his face. He looked exceptionally unimpressed. “With people other than me, Jean.”

“Why? Things are just fine the way they are.” He shrugged his shoulders with no more words to justify himself. Giving up seemed to be the best option. With only minutes before Armin and his friends were due to arrive, there seemed no point in an argument.

“I'm going away soon. You know that.” Marco began to draw shapes on the table with his fingers. The tablecloth rose up in ridges as he pushed across its surface. His interest was devoted to the way it buckled and the light caught its edges. “The academy will take up most of my time.” The fabric rippled under his touch. He pushed it forward and then smoothed it back into place again, tapping it flat with a caress. His voice was quiet now. “I worry.”

“Well, don't. I can manage perfectly fine on my own.” Jean leaned forward, hands gripping onto the edge of the table. It wobbled with the added weight. “Besides, you can call. You can write. I hear there's this wonderful thing called the internet...”

Marco sighed and finally peered up from the satin. “You'll get lonely without me around.”

“Well, don't leave me then,” Jean offered with a half-hearted laugh. His joking fell flat in the settling chill in the night air. Words he wished to whisper were forgotten in the glare of orange streetlights and dark figures streaming around the cafes. The rumbling of car wheels rolled by; the ground shook when the loudest of them passed. Every sound about them seemed to swarm around him, growing denser and thicker in the air.

One word pierced through the density and brought him through the fog like a bell ringing in the distance. “Jean.”

He rubbed his face, defeated by Marco’s voice once again. No matter where he disappeared to, Marco always seemed to ground him and bring him home. It was never something he wanted to fight. “Fine. Just don't let me get lonely. Promise?”

“Seriously?” Marco laughed. He scratched his right ear with a smile on his face. Jean still didn’t understand how he managed to have his smile reach his eyes every single time. He couldn’t help but admire him for it.

Heels clopped through the chatter around the cafe tables. They stood out in the clamour of all the sounds together, approaching them with increasing speed. Jean shrugged it off. “Promise?” A smirk crept upon Jean’s face.

Marco sighed, laughter in the air he expelled. “Fine.”

A calm and quiet voice spoke up from behind Jean’s shoulder. It was deliberate yet delicate and soft to the ear. “Did I interrupt a moment? Should I come back later?”

“No, no.” Marco smiled up at the stranger. Jean immediately turned in his chair, scraping the ground below its feet. Arm perched on the back of the chair, he looked up at a tall, slender woman around college age. Dressed in a figure-hugging dress of grey with a dark red scarf around her neck, she appeared as though she had someplace more important to be. Long black hair framed her face and a set of dark brown eyes focussed squarely on Jean’s gaping mouth.

“Uh...” Words were lost to him; his mind blank.

“Mikasa. Armin's friend,” she answered his silent question. “I'm guessing you…” Her grey eyes passed over Jean.  “Are Jean…” They switched to Marco. “And you must be Marco.” Marco answered her with an enthusiastic nod and wave.

“So where’s Armin?” Marco asked cheerfully, drawing Jean’s attention. He peered cheekily around Mikasa as if Armin was waiting just around the corner. “I would’ve expected he would have been here first to introduce you.”

“He’s not far behind me.” She glanced over her shoulder, hair swishing through the air when she turned her head. Jean glanced up at her, her narrow chin pointed toward the far end of the street. Her face did not change. “Eren’s probably delayed him… again.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, neither upset nor frustrated. Jean followed her gaze.

Squinting, he just managed to make out the shine of Armin’s blond hair underneath the cold, harsh light of a 24-hour convenience store. Before him stood a young man a bit taller than Armin, with short brown hair that became shaggy just over his ears and skin that was warm and bronzed next to the the pale glow from Armin’s. He gestured wildly, pointing at Armin with a sense of anger, but Armin stood there with a mild pout on his lips, unimpressed.

“Is Armin…” Jean began, looking back up to Mikasa in his uncertainty. Armin had always seemed so calm and controlled, but Jean had never seen him with the resilience that he saw now. Jean could hardly believe it, but it seemed this new meek apprentice had somewhat of a backbone.

Mikasa deigned not to look at Jean and instead crossed her arms. Just as Jean was accepting Mikasa’s silence as intentional, she answered, “Eren’s…” She paused and laughed a little under her breath. “Asking why he needs to be here.” Her face turned to them both, glancing first to Marco, with a small smile, and then to Jean. “He’s fine. Just a little… opinionated.”

Jean’s eyebrows furrowed. The confusion clouded his mind and his eyes darted from place to place as he thought, as though it would be helpful. Breath filled his lungs and escaped in one short huff. “Wait… how do you know what he’s asking?”  
  
Mikasa gestured casually towards Armin and his so-called friend Eren and spoke like it was the most natural explanation in the world. “I can see them.” Jean couldn’t stop his face from contorting; an expression that got a sharp tap on the table from Marco who could not reach far enough across the table to jab him in his side.

“Did you want to take a seat?” Marco called out with a smile in his voice. He pulled out the chair nearest to him. Its feet scraped across the pebbled concrete ground, screaming as he dragged it out. There was a soft thud when he patted the cushion of the seat.

Mikasa glanced his way and raised a hand to dismiss his offer. She remained still except for her hands adjusting and rearranging her scarf. It seemed as though she wasn’t sure how to wear it -- tight or loose, knotted or draped -- and fiddled with it every few seconds as if changing her mind about her own decision. Despite the disruptive and irregular fidgeting of her hands, her facial expression never changed, strength illuminated in the candlelight catching the side of her face.

Jean and Marco exchanged glances. Eyebrows down, Marco looked concerned, nodding towards Mikasa with raised shoulders. Jean shrugged and mimed silently across the table after quickly checking Mikasa was not watching him. Growing up together seemed to have its perks. Jean could almost always get what Marco was saying when he gestured or pointed or even mouthed his words. _Almost_. Marco had always been better at it than he had. He chalked it up to something to do with learning two languages while growing up. There had to be some kind of additional translation for gestures in there. Jean could only admit to knowing a little French from his mother, but she generally only spoke it when she was upset with him for some reason.

Armin rushed his way through the tables, excusing himself. His voice was clear from where they sat. He seemed to have a penchant for apologising. Hanji had taken him aside on his second day and explained that apologies only meant something when they were for things that required apologies. His compulsion seemed to appear most whenever Hanji asked him something. He’d had a timid way of moving around the office at first, and when he placed things in the wrong place or took a while to complete a task Hanji had given him, he apologised like it was reflex. Yet now, Jean saw none of the same hesitation. The words seemed to roll off like they were rehearsed, Armin moving his hands in a way Jean had never seen, stopping only to look behind him and gesture towards where Jean and Marco sat.

The man behind him, Eren, appeared to be rubbing his hands together every now and then out of habit, mouthing words and nodding apologetically. His hands always seemed raised like he was defending himself from an unseen attacker. The frustration Jean had seen was gone, replaced by the awkwardness and withdrawal of someone generally uncomfortable moving through crowds. His shoulders hunched and he shuffled behind the chairs of cafe patrons, following a step or two behind Armin. He never let his hands touch any of the chairs, keeping them lifted above them and close to his person as much as he could manage.

“Sorry we’re late.” Armin bent over in an awkwardly apologetic bow, shirt wrinkling at his elbows. He brushed at them self-consciously. When his eyes reached Jean’s, he smiled and added, “Oh, hey, Jean.”

Jean smiled with the side of his mouth and waved a short hello. His eyes quickly flittered over to Eren, who shuffled from foot to foot, appearing no less uncomfortable. He remained silent, but glanced between Armin and Mikasa expectantly. His rubber-soled shoes dragged across the ground, the sound dull amongst the richness of all the others around them.

Marco eased his weight onto the table, tipping it towards him and jolting Jean to attention when it rose on his side. Clearing his throat, he inclined his head to the side and peered over at Jean with raised eyebrows. When he wanted, Marco could be incredibly clear about what he wanted or, at least, what he thought would be best. Jean huffed with his eyes closed before he saw to Marco’s polite insistence.

“Evening, Armin,” Jean began, unsure as to whether he should stand to meet his workmate. He wasn’t quite sure they were that close yet, or whether it would be rude for him not to. He didn’t know how this was supposed to work. Instead he gestured to the spare chairs they had gathered together by their table with an awkward smile, forgetting whatever words he was probably supposed to use then.

He’d never been good at navigating the social intricacies of situations like this -- as rare as they were -- so he rarely bothered to try. No one seemed to be particularly upset or put off by his choices. Marco, however, seemed to think it made him look rather socially inept. Jean merely shrugged when it came up.

“So, uh… seems you’ve met Mikasa?” Armin asked, taking a seat to Jean’s right. Mikasa sat beside him, closest to Marco, and faced Eren sitting down on Marco’s other side. He had still failed to say a word. Despite Jean’s own social awkwardness, he felt offput by the silent and expressionless way he seemed to take to this evening. A simple smile would have sufficed.

Marco piped up, “Yeah, she refused to sit down before you got here.” Marco’s sense of honesty always seemed to shine through. Jean could have sworn the man had an aversion to letting lies pass his lips. Every word he ever said seemed to ring of truth, and it instilled an unspeakable trust in Jean.  
  
“Again?” Armin turned to Mikasa, pulling on the lapel of his grey suede coat. His already thin form seemed to fit snugly in it, with it skirting around his waist. It looked old, worn, and well-loved with patches of the fabric thin and scratched. Beneath it lay a simple buttoned shirt in a pastel blue, tucked unceremoniously into the hem of his brown slacks. He looked neat, like he was about to attend another job interview. He seemed just as nervous as if that were true. Judging by the way he appeared to have tucked his shirt in, it looked like he'd spent a long while choosing it, then had rushed out the door. Jean supposed his concern about his colourblindedness played into it. He was always so careful about labelling things correctly so he knew the difference. No doubt his fickleness had delayed them.

Mikasa crossed her arms calmly, appearing neither defensive nor confrontative, and she shrugged, though hardly enough to be dismissive. “I felt it more appropriate to stand.”

Eren shook his head. His hands fidgeted and pulled on the hem of his army green cargo jacket, even checking the pockets were buttoned closed. His fingers would occasionally fiddle with the hem of his black collared cotton shirt or delve into the pockets of his acid-washed jeans. Fingers twitching, he kept shuffling in place, exchanging glances with Armin and Mikasa with eyebrows raised. Impatience agitated his every semblance of a stance. Movement seemed to be ever constant in him. Perhaps it was trying to worm its way out somehow. They would find out soon enough.

His arms lifted and his hands began to move abruptly with a little force. Jean’s eyes were drawn to the way his arms seemed to glide through the air. He signaled to Mikasa, gesturing a series of signs, Jean guessed, and his mouth moved along with it, facial expressions exaggerated. Jean’s own mouth opened to question them, but Mikasa answered with her own series of different signs. Thankfully for Jean’s ears and growing confusion, she spoke aloud for him to hear, “I was waiting for you.” She pointed at Eren to punctuate her words.

Eren’s hands waved over toward Jean and Marco. A brief, polite smile of acknowledgement was thrown in their direction. Considerably smoother in his movements after his expression softened, he continued his stream of signs, constructing a visual conversation before Jean’s eyes. He was transfixed.

“Armin?” Mikasa responded, turning with her hands up in the air ready to sign, but stopped them and gestured vaguely over the table in front of her. “I’ve already introduced myself, but Eren…”

“Oh, right.” Armin nodded and turned himself to face both Eren and the table. He spoke, speaking and signing his words simultaneously. “Eren,” he addressed Eren and signed something in silence. He continued to sign before gesturing at Jean and Marco individually. “I’d like you to meet Jean…” His right hand seemed to flick and glide through signs, changing between raised and moving fingers to fists and back again. It was fluid, and despite not understanding the signs themselves, Jean knew that was his name spelled out. “And Marco.” Marco’s name seemed to have a different look and feel to it.

Eren placed his right hand to the side of his head, fingers together and palm forward, and moved it out in the form of a salute at them both. Marco instantly took the opportunity to return the gesture. A bright, warm smile grew on Eren’s face, dimples forming at the edges of it. His bright green eyes seemed to glow as the candlelight glimmered in them.

Jean, lost in his curiosity, asked the question on his mind. “So, you’re deaf? Or do you not speak?” He turned to Eren, pointing at him with his hand, palm facing up and trying to make the question as casual as possible. He wasn’t sure if he should expect an answer or not. Armin had talked about Eren and Mikasa regularly at work, but never once had he mentioned this fact.

Mikasa signed for him. Her hands seemed to flow through the air effortlessly, but their stops and starts had an edge to them. It seemed longer than what Jean asked. Eren’s eye twitched. He seemed to narrow his eyes ever so slightly. Jean couldn’t be sure if he was glaring or questioning him. The slight tilt to his head gave him his answer. Eren made a low sound - a wordless kind of grunt that Jean had not heard before. His attention turned directly to Armin, eyebrows raised and hands gesturing at Jean as he signed hesitantly.

Armin’s shoulders rose up self consciously, eyes darting away to Jean then back to Eren, who continued to sign at him. He emphasised a particular sign with a thumb to his temple, curling two straightened fingers, then making a gesture around his face. Jean had no idea what that meant. Perhaps he had hit a nerve. He crossed his arms and huffed, staring at this silent conversation before him that was clearly about him. Armin looked uncomfortable.

“Yes,” Mikasa chimed in with a cool, calm voice. “He is deaf.” Jean caught Marco straightening his back out of the corner of his eye. His eyes, however met Mikasa’s grey stare. There was just a hint of a twitch in her eyebrows, her expression otherwise like stone, as if it were never meant to smile. She continued, never looking away, “And yes, he’s been deaf his whole life. No, he can’t read lips.”

“Mikasa!” Armin cut in, throwing an apologetic smile in Jean’s direction. He quickly signed something to her, mouth moving with exaggerated expressions again. His signing gave way to a low, whispered tone. “He’s just asking. There’s no harm in asking.”

Eren’s shoulders relaxed. He adjusted himself against the back of the chair and the tension of the table seemed to dissipate. He signed something slowly to Mikasa, earning a curt nod from her, before adding something to Armin. Marco and Jean exchanged looks across the table. Marco’s smile told him he could have phrased it better, said it with a better tone... The usual list of things Jean seemed to do that earned him prickly, defensive reactions from strangers he talked to.

“Sorry,” Armin sighed, “It’s just…” He looked around between the three of them. “We’ve gotten a lot of questions over the years.”

“After a while, you get tired of them,” Mikasa added. It seemed the closest to an apology for whatever it was that had happened that he was going to get. He might as well take it.

“Well.” Marco clapped his hands together, bringing the issue to a close. He leaned onto the table and smiled warmly. “You all seem to sign?” Leave it to Marco to be able to make an entire situation warm and almost inviting. He had a way with people that Jean never fully understood. Every interaction came easily to him, as though it were a natural way to be with people. At times it would frustrate Jean, but right now, he appreciated that it wasn’t just him sitting alone at this table. Maybe Marco had been right after all.

Eren turned to Mikasa expectantly, and she signed Marco’s question for his benefit. He took the opportunity to nod and gestured to the trio of them. An answer that all of them could understand. Jean couldn’t help but smile himself.

“How…” Jean started speaking and stopped hesitantly as he noticed Armin translating for him. Suddenly feeling under pressure, he licked his lips and glanced around the table. “How do you know each other?” It seemed like a general enough question to get the conversation going. He glanced over to Marco, who had rested his head on his hands. He blinked slowly to indicate his approval. Jean felt a small sense of relief.

Eren took the opportunity to sign again. He was rather talkative, it seemed. Jean couldn’t imagine how he would manage the way that Eren seemed to. It didn’t seem to phase him at all that Jean couldn’t understand. Armin spoke for him this time, waiting for Eren to finish before he started to translate. “We’ve known each other since we were kids in foster care.” Jean and Marco nodded. “Mikasa was adopted by my parents… We went into foster care together. We met Armin at our foster home.”

“Oh,” Jean said aloud without realising it. He clenched his eyes shut and scolded himself. He didn’t know what he was meant to say to that, searching Marco’s expression for help and trying to hide the growing panic inside him from the others.

“You must be close, then.” Marco chuckled lightly in a way Jean had only known him to do. He could break tension with the utmost of ease, and even the sourest of people would thank him for it. Jean wished he could thank him for it now; but the audience kept his praise buried in the back of his mind for later.

Mikasa smiled with a warmth not unlike Marco’s. She was more reserved in her smile and if Jean had not been looking, he wasn’t sure he would have noticed it at all. Her words were soft this time. “We are.” Jean found himself smiling at her and quickly looked away when she caught him staring at her.

Armin hummed as Eren signed again. He spoke quicker this time, reading Eren’s words as he formed them with his hands. “Armin tells me you fix watches? You’re the guy they get to fix everything, right?” Eren awkwardly turned between them both, trying to direct the conversation at Jean while asking for the translation from Armin. It seemed challenging to Jean, and he felt somewhat useless in that he wasn’t able to understand. It reminded him of the Bodt household, where every second word was Italian, but at least _there_ he knew some of the words to understand them, and other times he could at least guess. This was a whole different ballpark.

Jean nodded at Eren and with a light tone he answered, “Yeah, I get stuck with all the broken things. That’s generally how it works. I specialise in watches, but I can do other things too.” He pointed at Armin, who was turning his words into sign. “Armin here, though, seems to have a knack for the jewellery side, especially the design part. He’ll make a good gemologist if he works hard.” Eren and Mikasa nodded in polite interest. Armin’s shoulders rose up at Jean’s last words. He finished his translation before addressing Jean’s remark.

“Thank you, Jean.” He clenched his jaw and continued dismissively, “I don’t think I'll make a good gemologist. I mean, I want to, but the problem with that is the whole… colour thing.”

Marco jumped into the conversation, concerned. “What do you mean?”

“I won’t be able to grade some of the gems the same way as others do. It’d be a lot harder for me because I can’t…” Armin gulped away the trembling emotion clawing at his voice. “I can’t see colours the way other people see them.”  
  
Mikasa reached out to place a hand on his shoulder. “You can still do it. You have ways. We worked them out together, remember?” Her hand slid down his arm and grabbed his hand, intertwining her fingers with his. Her face softened into a concerned smile. “You’re smart. You’ve got this.” Her eyes glanced over to Eren and as she caught his eyes,nodded towards Armin. Armin’s eyes had taken to the table before him. His thumb rubbed over her hand roughly. Mikasa didn’t seem to mind.

“Yeah.” Armin smiled with a hint of self-deprecation. He didn’t seem to believe his own answer. “I’ve not really heard of it happening, but.”

Eren took the opportunity to reach out and touch Armin’s free hand that rubbed its fingertips together on the table. Even Jean could read what he was saying with furrowed eyebrows and a small frown. His concern seemed soft and hesitant, so unlike the way he moved his hands when he signed, more cautious than Jean had seen him move so far. Without words, he said everything he needed to.

Armin looked up, smiling at Eren first before he turned his attention to Mikasa. He laughed quietly, sending most of his chuckles to his chest. Mikasa’s hand lifted his chin up to look at her again and he nodded in acknowledgement, leaning slightly into her hand. Jean saw something in his eyes -- the doubt perhaps -- fade away, and they seemed the clear, focussed blue that Jean knew. He could not deny the connection they had between them.

“Maybe we should actually get something to drink.” Marco’s warm voice brought them all back. Scratching his neck, he shrugged awkwardly when Mikasa and Armin’s heads turned towards him. He nodded towards the bar inside the cafe. “Who wants to join me?”

Armin shrugged back. A strand of blond hair fell from his ponytail and danced across his lashes. He paid it no mind. His blue eyes took a survey of the table. “Sure. We might as well get up.” Pushing himself back in his chair, he pulled Mikasa’s hand, tugging her lightly with him.

“Very good.” Marco’s smile challenged the brightness of the candle flickering before his seat. He stood, bending over with one hand rested on the tablecloth. “So, are you both coming?” Marco raised his eyebrows at Eren, gesturing towards him and Jean with the other hand, then nodding with his head in the direction of the bar. He repeated a similar gesture of them getting up and leaving but Eren simply shook his head with closed eyes. He raised his hand and waved it dismissively.

Marco turned to Jean with a tilted head and raised eyebrows. “And you?” His face read of expectation with the smallest of glances at Eren. Probably some attempt of his to be inclusive but keep Eren in mind. There was something in his eyes that told him he should be friendly and play nice. Even when he didn’t speak, Marco had a way of telling him he needed to be amiable with strangers.

“I’m good.” Jean rested his hands on the table and leaned forward. He didn’t feel it appropriate to get up and leave Eren on his own. Though he supposed conversation would not be entirely thrilling, if possible at all. He peered up at Marco with tight lips, begging with his eyes for Marco to stay. A hand rested on Marco’s hip told him that it was hopeless. There was nothing he could do to convince him now that he was already on his feet. Jean sighed to himself.

They stood up together. Armin pulled out Mikasa’s chair and wandered after her when he left for the bar. His eyes turned back to Eren, finding himself met with an encouraging nod. Marco stepped forward, throwing another warning look Jean’s way.

“So what is it you do, Marco?” Mikasa asked as Marco joined them, leaving Jean and Eren looking awkwardly at each other.

Jean raised his hand and waved awkwardly at Eren. _This is just perfect_ , he thought to himself. Eren had barely made more than a sound and while he figured he could probably communicate with him in theory, the reality of it was something quite a bit more difficult. Jean lifted his shoulders up, uncomfortable with the apparent weight that laid upon them. His mother would no doubt tell him it would be rude to sit there in silence, but it felt an odd burden to be the one to start conversation when his conversation partner would be unlikely to understand him. He had no faith in his ability to make himself understood. Instead he sat stiffly with his arms tucked in by his side, shoulders tense and fingers flexing.

A drumming on the table broke him from his swirling thoughts. Eren had taken to rhythmically tapping the tabletop with the fingertips of one hand. His green eyes side-eyed him from down the table, slowing the tapping and adding his other hand to the rhythm he was building. He tilted his head, his long fringe of brown hair brushing across his forehead, exaggerating his angle intentionally to get Jean’s attention. His eyes darted between Jean and his arms.

Jean sat up, worrying his lip and moving his eyebrows up and down in his confusion. Obliging what he thought Eren was trying to tell him, he lifted his hands onto the table and with a little flourish he tapped his fingertips on the table discordantly. His tapping was followed by another set of tapping from Eren, mimicking the rhythm he’d made. Eren laughed, shaking Jean awake from his momentary daze. It sounded different than other laughter he had heard. It sounded muffled, but still with the same heart and warmth he expected in any laugh. It brought a smile to his face, and the awkward chill that had set over him thawed.

Testing it out, Jean tapped the table a little harder. Eren responded again in kind. Chuckling, Jean repeated it again and nodded towards Eren. Things seemed easier, doing this. He supposed they weren’t chatting, but there was something different in the back and forth they had going with a simple rhythm. However, just as Jean felt himself getting into it, the tapping stopped.

Eren’s eyes seemed to stare across the table. Perhaps the light of the candle had caught his eye. He appeared pensive, lost in his own mind. His fingers continued tapping, but lightly, dancing across the table with little embellishments in the rhythm. His lips twitched and his eyebrows rose sharply, to Jean’s surprise. His hand disappeared into his coat pocket, pulling out a ballpoint pen. It clinked when he threw it onto the tablecloth. With his other hand, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small notebook.

He picked up the pen and, without looking at Jean, scribbled a note before sliding the book down the table, where it stopped underneath Jean’s tapping fingers. The pen followed soon after. Eren smiled expectantly at Jean’s confused glance. The writing before him was messy, but still remarkably legible considering Eren’s penmanship and the speed it was written with.

“This any better?” was all it said. Eren shrugged and gestured towards the book, swirling his hand in the air in encouragement. He signed a few things at Jean, but it all seemed like gibberish to Jean’s eyes. Eren sighed through his laughter.

Jean grimaced at his own incapability. Somehow he felt more incapable writing the conversation than just mouthing words. He didn’t want to embarrass himself more than necessary. With a deep breath, he nodded and stared blankly at the piece of paper. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to write, and settled on the only thing he could think of. “So how does this work?”

He slid the book with the pen up the table to Eren’s waiting hands. They slammed down on the book and tossed the pen up in the air with an amused smile. He chuckled at Jean’s handwriting, producing an embarrassed hunch in Jean’s shoulders. He scribbled over the page, taking longer this time, and flipped over to the next.

It slid across the tablecloth with ease. The fabric provided little friction to stop its movement, and it hit Jean’s hand with more force than he was expecting.

He opened the book to the first page. Scribbled roughly across it, it read:

“Generally people write things they want to say.”

There were rough question marks scribbled into the lower corner. The ink stained the page in dots, places where the pen linked in his rush. Jean flipped over the page to the next lot of writing. “So you have any questions?”

He scoffed, writing quicker than he had time to look up at Eren’s expression. He wrote the words with a smirk on his face and a sense of amusement. “What do you expect me to ask? Favourite colour? What flowers you like?”

Eren’s hand reached out for the book this time, snatching it up. The smile that grew brought light to his eyes. He sent the book to Jean again.

Scrawled across the top of the page was “GREEN” in all capitals, then beneath it, “Are you planning on getting me some?” written in cursive style. Eren winked at Jean as soon as their eyes met.

Jean stared back when he wrote this time, face blank and emotionless. He didn’t want to give Eren the satisfaction of having got to him. He avoided answering the questions by writing “Your handwriting is terrible.”   
  
Eren laughed heartily when he read it, prompting a returning Armin and Mikasa to pause, curious about his demeanour, before they took their seats. They placed their glasses of white and red wine quietly before them. Armin passed to Eren a clear bottle that looked like it contained some variety of cider. Bubbles lazily rose to the bottle’s lip.

Marco, however, stopped by Jean’s side, placing a short tumbler glass of scotch. A good two fingers of the spirit glowed with a rich, deep orange. Jean stared at it, confused, before throwing his head back to peer up at Marco’s smile. “What?” he asked incredulously.

Marco placed a hand on Jean’s right shoulder, shaking him like a man who had fallen asleep. “I figured you’d probably want one.” He tossed a curious look at Eren tucking his book away into his coat, but said nothing of it.

Jean turned his head to glance at Marco’s hand before he turned his eyes on Armin, eyebrows tensing in thought. “Hey Armin.” The fingers on his shoulders took a tighter hold. Jean ignored them.

Voice soft, and surprised by the sudden mention of his name, Armin swallowed a sip of his wine and asked a short, “Hmm?”

“I think I have a challenge for you,” Jean responded with a growing smirk on his face, picking up the scotch glass and letting the amber spirit within coat across the glass with a gentle tilting of his hand. He let the scent linger under his nose, watching it swirl and dance. “It’ll put those design skills of yours to use.”

 

* * *

 

** \- Present Day - **

 

His home stood tall before him, two storeys of warmth and memories under terracotta roof tiles. Its foundation was built in red bricks, rising up to the cream-painted wood of the second storey, interrupted only by the large sliding window of his bedroom.

The front screen door of home squeaked when Jean wrenched it open. It clamoured behind him with a loud metallic shake, hitting the door as it closed. Home felt somewhat warmer now that morning had hit the east side of the brickwork, heating it through as if to welcome him back after his long night out.

“Good morning,” Jean called out, expecting his mother to answer back in her usual chipper way. The response was somewhat less warm than the sun outside.

“Where the hell have you been?” his mother threw at him, her voice edging on a shriek. Her voice reached him first from the lounge room near the front of the house and her body soon followed, arms crossed. Her face mixed expressions of relief and anger together in a storm of twitching lips and eyebrows. The tone in her voice settled to one of worry. “I’ve been up all night worried sick. I tried calling you but you didn’t answer.”

Knowing better than to question his mother when she worried, Jean stared at the ground. He answered her meekly, eyes fixated on the floor. “Sorry… I went out.”

The concern grew in her voice. She stepped closer, looking over his dirty clothes and rubbing the side of his arm. “Out? Alone? No one seemed to know where you were.” Her tone cracked. Jean peered up and saw she was on the verge of tears, fueled by anger, confusion, and worry. “After what happened to Marco…” Jean stood up straight at the mention of his name. Their eyes locked and a sweeping sense of guilt overtook him. He hung his head in shame.

She sighed and stepped forward. “I didn't know if you were going to come home. I had half a mind to hop in the car and go and find you, but then no one would be here if you got home.” Jean nodded. After all that had happened, he had never thought that she would come home to find him missing and doubt whether or not he would ever return. The idea that she had sat at home worrying made him sick.

He muttered, through the desire to shut down, “Sorry.”

Her hands met his shoulders, settling there with a light hold. “Don't do that to me.” There was a small gasp between her words, almost like a sob she dared not allow herself. “Tell me where you're going if you're going to be out. Just let me know that you're safe. That's all I ask.” Her hands trembled as much as her voice quivered. Peering up at her, it didn’t seem like she had managed much sleep at all last night. Though Jean hadn’t be able to sleep himself, either.

Recalling what had kept him up all night, a shiver ran through him. “Yes, _maman_.” Jean nodded, placing a hand on top of hers. He hoped the touch would relieve some of her stress. He was home now. Tired, and still trying to hold himself together, but he was home.

“I don’t know what happened to you,” she explained to Jean’s wordless excuses. “Or where you were.” He couldn’t explain he spent all night in a cemetery. There was no telling how she would take it. He resolved that he would never tell her what he saw last night. He didn’t need to worry her more than he already had. Her hair was frazzled. Dark circles had made homes beneath her eyes, which already looked tired and red. Jean took a sharp breath in at the thought of his mother crying over him.

Not sure what to say, Jean repeated himself. “I’m sorry.”

She pleaded with her eyes and a strain in her voice, “Please don’t be like your father.”

“No, _maman_ , I’m not him. I swear.” For a moment, his mother looked at him with a hint of disbelief. Some part of her suspected he might be the same and leave her, with no spoken words to explain himself. Jean hoped he would never disappoint her like that.

She cleared her throat, rubbing her neck as if it would help it along. Her other hand let go of him and dropped to her side. “Did you even have your phone on you?”

Jean patted his pockets, searching through every part of his clothes in which he could have put it. Finding he hadn’t taken his phone like he'd thought, he shook his head, grumbling and frowning. She sighed with a tiny smile, and Jean knew that she would be all right. The tense feeling in his shoulders and back released, letting the rest of him relax and allowing the tiredness he had been ignoring to catch up with him.

“Go sleep, _Monsieur Grognon_.” She ruffled his hair, laughing as he groaned in complaint. Both of them knew that he liked it, but he would never admit it aloud. “You’re tired and apparently grumpy.”

“ _D’accord_.” Jean replied with an exaggerated frown, followed by a cheeky grin. He never wasted opportunities to use what little French he knew. His chances were few and far between.

As he reached his bed, his eyelids grew heavy, blinking slowly and steadily, making it harder for him to keep them open. Sleep sounded good, and when he lay down on his sheets, it felt just as good as he had hoped.

The next morning fell more into Jean’s old routine. He woke at 7am to the light streaming through his window. He rolled out of bed with purpose. The prospect of work actually seemed more promising and less of a chore than it had the last few days. His shower felt warm and welcoming. It was a small change, but he had made it on his own and it felt like one step in the right direction again.

The front counter of Smith & Zoe Jewellers seemed crowded this morning, but not with customers. Two of the mall security guards stood before it with their arms crossed and feet apart. Connie leaned on the counter like it was supporting him, waving his hands around as he told some anecdotes about surfing. Jean slowed down as he entered. After a moment of awkward hesitation, Sasha saluted him from their cluster, wiggling her shoulders and wrinkling her nose. Jean laughed. She seemed to pull that face whenever she wanted him to be social. He humoured her and joined them.

The tall, dark-haired guard stood almost perfectly straight, hands folded behind his back. While Jean had spoken to him on occasion, all he knew about him was that his name was Bertholdt and there was something about the way he held himself that made Jean feel uncomfortable. The other guard, Reiner, stood a little shorter and stockier, with hair buzzed short and shades lighter than Armin’s. This one Jean knew perhaps more than he would like. He would often visit to share stories with Connie, the pair trying to one-up each other with increasingly ridiculous anecdotes about their travels. Despite the competition, Jean doubted that either of them took it seriously.

Both guards were dressed in matching uniforms. Their short sleeved white shirts were pressed. Their blue ties showed starkly against the bright of the cotton, matching their slacks and utility belts around their waists, which carried an assortment of gear that Jean preferred not to notice. While Bertholdt looked too tall for his uniform, Reiner almost seemed to be busting through his with sheer muscle.

Reiner’s raucous laughter bellowed through the air. He slapped the counter with his big, heavy hand and spoke just as loudly, “I imagine that kid ran right out of the water too.”

Connie nodded. A momentary smile let Jean know he knew he was there. “Yeah, and I just rode the wave to shore.” He gestured his arms out wide as though riding the wave once again.

“Sounds like you.” Reiner stopped to follow Connie’s gaze and waved a quick hello. Bertholdt beside him leaned forward, and his face seemed to twitch into a smile. Jean could not tell with certainty. It formed back into an expression of general concern. He looked more uncomfortable to be there during a casual chat than one normally would. Jean’s impression of him as a strange man remained.

“Jean!” Connie raised up his hand for a high five. Jean awkwardly obliged. He was better at fiddling with small pieces of metal than having the hand-eye coordination to slap someone’s hand. Despite repeated failures over the years, Connie still insisted. This time he managed a somewhat decent one in front of Reiner and Bertholdt. At least that potential embarrassment was avoided for now.

“Con-man. Sash. Reiner. Bertholdt.” He nodded at each of them in turn. “What are the four of _you_ up to? It looks suspicious.” Jean wandered forward and leaned against the glass case. His eyes narrowed with the slightest of smirks.

Sasha crossed her arms and retorted, “You think any gathering at work is suspicious.” Her ponytail bobbed as she tilted her head. Her serious expression broke quickly into a large smile. Connie at her side nudged her in the ribs.

“Yeah, because you’re usually planning something.” Jean frowned, propping his elbows on the glass and leaning back. He crossed one foot over the other and grimaced with as much exaggeration he could muster. “Something that specifically involves me.”

“Touché, but I swear, this time it’s not about you.” Sasha twirled her brown hair, strands wrapping around her fingers, falling delicately to her shoulders. The bright lights shone red highlights into it as though her warmth shimmered there.

Jean tilted his head to match the angle of hers. Every word he spoke filtered through the smirk that grew on his face. “Oh? Have you lost your touch, Sash?”

Reiner and Bertholdt exchanged a look between themselves, drawing back a step to clear the view between Jean and Sasha. Their silence did not go unnoticed, with Connie reaching out to pat Reiner on the shoulder. They seemed to suddenly draw themselves back from their casual stance to one more reminiscent of their jobs in security. Bertholdt’s hand drifted to his taser absentmindedly, like he was reminding himself of his job description.

Sasha scoffed and eased the awkward tension of their banter with a wave of her hand. Bertholdt’s shoulders relaxed with a shuddered breath. His eyes glanced down at Sasha’s fingers tapping a 6/8 rhythm while she casually responded, “Please. I never lose my touch. Are you kidding?”

“If there were ever a truth about my dear _Sachet_ …” Connie grinned wide when Sasha’s face fell into a blank-faced glare. “Touch is her forte.” For a moment Sasha smiled with a little quiver in her eyebrows, a moment of pride, before it fell with Connie’s next words. “Even if it is rubbing her greasy fingers all over my head.”

Sasha huffed loudly, drawing everyone’s attention. “Well, someone has to polish it.” She nudged at him with her shoulder before throwing her arm around him to draw him in, placing her other hand on the crown of his head.

Connie grimaced, only enhanced by the confused look on Bertholdt’s face and the amused one on Reiner’s. They both stood there ignoring Connie’s pleas for help, shrugging away their involvement. Their fingers hooked into their pockets and utility belts, as if busying their hands would absolve them of involving themselves in the mild dispute in front of them.

Grunting loudly, he struggled to get away from her grasp, but failed, relenting into her arms with an even more unimpressed expression on his face. His voice sounded flat and full of mocking spite. “It only needs polishing because your dirty mitts are all over it.” He leaned his head against her hands, moving his head to create a rubbing motion.

“I have to lean on something,” Sasha sighed with exasperation, propping her arm upon his head and leaning heavily.

“You’re perfectly capable on your own feet.” Connie laughed and poked her hard in the ribs. She gasped loudly and wriggled away from him with a parting glare.

“Children,” Jean mused aloud. He could no longer hide the smirk on his face. The way the two of them got on always amused him. Something about all of the energy they threw at each other, regardless of the form it took, made him smile. Teasing insults, jabs in the ribs, and a myriad of expressions had become their code, and as much as Jean had seen of it over the years, the truth of what it all meant lay between them. Jean could only hope to be as lucky as those two.

They both turned towards him with narrowed eyes, bodies linked together like they never meant to let go. Inseparable once and always. He could never imagine them being apart from one another. He supposed it only seemed natural that Sasha should follow him into the same line of work. Give them an opportunity to tag team and they would take it. All customers fell victim to the spell of their charm they weaved between them.

“So, are you two here for a reason or just wasting your ample time with nothing to do?” Jean asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. Eyebrows up, he awaited their answer, eyeing Bertholdt’s awkward shuffling and shrugging in his place.

Reiner was the first to speak. His shoulders back and chest pressed out, he spoke with a sense of importance in his job that made Jean uncomfortable. “We work 12 hour shifts day in, day out. We can afford to shop every now and then so you can tell us of any suspicious activity.” His white cotton shirt appeared to stretch over his pecs, seeming just that little bit small for him despite fitting perfectly fine.

Bertholdt’s voice was low and absent of the sense of confidence Reiner’s held. They hardly would’ve seemed to have the same job, if one simply listened to them talk. “Resting is just as important as us walking around.”

“And I guess chatting counts as important too?” Jean crossed his arms. He intended to sound unimpressed, but whether that came through in his voice as he looked over their uniforms, he wasn’t sure. They called themselves security, but he had never seen them secure much of anything around here.

“Well…” Bertholdt began to speak, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. “There is always room to build rapport.” He shrugged his shoulders to punctuate his words, unsure of where to rest them when he was done.

Jean wanted to groan, but he resisted the urge. It wasn’t something that would help his situation, but oh how he wished he could. People who couldn’t manage to do their job properly only ever seemed to piss him off. That, amongst many other things. However, he managed to ask a question through gritted teeth, glancing at the door as a signal for them to leave. “Does that include preventing people from doing their jobs while you don’t do yours?”

“Jean!” Sasha exclaimed. “There’s no need for that kind of tone. They’re just being friendly.” She moved apart from Connie and stepped forward. Her eyes searched his, pleading with him to calm down. Perhaps she expected him to have an outburst. A part of him felt offended she would think he was capable of that now, especially here. He had worked past his temper issues. She knew that. Jean couldn’t help but think she thought he was fragile and emotionally compromised. _Is that what everyone thinks?_ Jean thought, mouth parting in silent questioning.

“Oh, looks like you’re throwing a party! Where’s my invitation?” A voice called gruffy from behind them. Their heads turned toward the source of the voice, finding a tall, slender figure that trudged into the store with their head down, eyes hidden between a jagged brown fringe lying in strands across the edges of their face, hair pulled back into a loose braid. Over their shoulder hung a large black backpack, their hands clinging to it as if refusing to let it go.

Jean groaned, “Them again.” He rubbed his temple at yet another unwelcome guest. “Perfect timing as always.”

“Ymir!” Sasha screamed, rushing forward with open arms. She enveloped them as they squeezed their arms to their side, peering at her, confused and taken aback.

They shrugged their way out of Sasha’s grasp with a less than enthusiastic "Hey, chickadee." Their voice was raspy and low. Their eyes wandered around. “So this is what you call work. I wish I got paid to stand around.” Without waiting for a response to their blunt statement, they leaned to peer over at the back door. “Is Erwin here?” They adjusted the backpack strap digging into their shoulder. “I _actually_ have a job to do.”

Reiner stared blankly, unimpressed, and leaned heavily against the glass case. He scoffed at them instead of speaking. Bertholdt shrugged and crossed his arms across his chest, remaining silent.

Connie, however, looked between them and lifted his chin to answer, “He should be out back.” He nodded towards the back room. Its white windowed door was closed. The mirrored window to the side gave no clue as to whether someone laid inside.  

They turned and paused mid-step, rolling their foot. "Oh, right..." Dark brown eyes considered them each in turn with what looked like contempt, but Jean suspected her face formed that expression _whenever_ she thought about something, falling into place as more habit than intention. "You lot going to Eren's bash?"

The guards shrugged with nothing to say, drawing an unimpressed frown from Ymir's face. Meanwhile Connie leaned against Sasha and gestured in a grand sweep of his hand through the air. "We wouldn't miss it." His other hand twirled through Sasha's ponytail languishing on her shoulder. She nodded, tugging it away from his fingers with an amused but warning look at him.

Ymir's voice shook Jean from his silent staring. "What about you, sunny Jim?"

"First I've heard about it." He settled further on the counter, fingertips playing with the edge of the glass, leaving marks he'd probably have to clean later.

“You should come,” they suggested with implied obligation in their voice. Only Ymir could sound patronising with a sense of sincerity. If something had to be said, she'd be the one to say it, even if it lacked the tact one would normally expect. "Chris’ll be there too. They wanted to see you."

"Oh, you saw _them_ today?" Jean cringed inside at the emphasis he added, eyebrows raised as though he hadn’t heard it before. He'd known Christa since he started working here. Back then they went only by ‘she,’ and dressed in frills and lace out of perceived obligation, with their small frame and blonde locks, trying to be exactly what people expected. She could have dressed as a doll and no one would have blinked. Now the florals and lace woven together to form a charade of innocence and fragility had fallen away to something more grounded, less fabricated, and more... them. Considerably more comfortable nonconforming, Jean had never seen Christa happier than when she expressed and presented herself the way she wanted. He could thank Ymir for that, he was sure.

Despite how often she told him it was fine, Jean felt guilty that he found it hard to change from calling Christa ‘she,’ often forgetting that she - they - he - was also okay with whatever anyone called them, unlike like Ymir. He didn’t understand how she was okay with it. There was still a part of him that found it hard to be okay with calling her ‘she,’ the familiar term to him, the affectionate one he failed to forget, and yet she would always tell him it was fine and to not worry about it. Where Christa was sweet and forgiving, Ymir never failed to correct him if he slipped up with their pronouns.

Ymir jostled their backpack, silently dismissing Jean's verbal stumble. "Where do you think I’m going with this?" Their lips twitched into a smile. "Going to see them after this."

Jean felt his shoulders relax, returning Ymir’s smile. “Better get going then.”

Ymir pushed through the group of them, nudging Jean with a light punch to his shoulder. “Don’t get in my way this time.”

“Noted,” Jean replied.

“We should get going, Reiner.” Bertholdt’s voice quivered. He sounded like a man who spoke so little that his voice forgot how to speak.

Reiner cleared his throat, passing a glance to Bertholdt and gaining Jean’s attention. Stretching his arms out in front of him, he started to break away from the group. “Yeah, I guess we better.” He raised a fist towards Connie. “Better see you soon, Con.”

“You know you will.” Connie bumped his fist with Reiner’s.

Sasha reached out to stroke down Bertholdt’s arm. The gesture drew a sigh from his tall form, like all the nerves entangled up in his long limbs took leave of his body. She always seemed to have that calming effect on people. It was one of the things for which he could always trust in her. “No skipping out, okay?”

Bertholdt nodded, his short hair moving with him. For a man so tall, he always seemed to be looking up at people. There remained a quiet confidence in himself. Yet every so often, one could see the the widening of his eyes and the tightened lips that denoted his discomfort. As little as Jean knew of him, Bertholdt’s avoidance of large gatherings of people was renowned, though he would never admit it.

The back room door opened with a thud and the metal clinking of a lock being undone. Heads turned to find Erwin’s broad stance and piercing eyes, questioning each of them in turn. Ymir, standing before him, turned back to the lingering group, replicating his gaze.

“Mr. Hoover, are you here to collect your watch?” His smooth voice rang with a hint of intimidation. Jean knew all too well that he intended his words to be an ultimatum: pay for the services completed on his watch or leave. Considering Jean had not found the appropriate parts to finish his work, it was hardly an ultimatum at all.

Reiner and Bertholdt acknowledged Erwin’s warning with quiet grunts, passing a look between themselves. An awkward shiver ran through Jean and he retreated to the back of the store, watching as Bertholdt and Reiner left with raised hands and quick waves, and Sasha and Connie moaned about returning to work. Erwin had none of it, answering them with a blank stare that ceased all further arguments.

“Greetings, Ymir.” His words were accompanied by a brief nod. She responded in kind. Jean suddenly felt awkward to be standing near them. Neither of them ever had any words to say to each other beyond what was necessary. They did not stand for small talk or superfluous conversations. Without his eyes leaving theirs, he flatly informed them, “Go on. I have a matter to discuss with Jean.”

Jean gulped, crossing his arms in preparation, eyes following Ymir’s swagger into the back room. He dreaded what Erwin felt it necessary to say before a banking collection. Once Ymir had left listening distance, Erwin put forward his fist in an offering gesture, tightly clasped and awaiting Jean’s hand to be outreached. He did not hesitate to place his open palm before Erwin.

A cold met his skin when Erwin dropped an object in his hand, a metal clink percussing the transfer. Erwin frowned down at Jean. “This piece has not been collected.” He turned it over in Jean’s hand. The pink of the rose shimmed under the fluorescents; lines within the mother of pearl watch face caught the light in waves, washing across its surface like liquid. Diamonds marked each of the numbers, making it a delicate and tasteful piece overall, and an odd choice of watch to leave behind. Jean’s expression gave away his thoughts, prompting Erwin to answer them with “No one is coming to pick it up.

“What?” Jean’s voice and eyebrows betrayed him. It was absurd for a piece worth as much as this one to be discarded so easily. “How do you know?”

Erwin’s eyes softened, focussing on the watch as memories played with the lines on his face. “I called the number. I’m afraid the young lady that owned this passed away not long ago.”

“Who told you?” Jean stood there, finding himself unable to look up, staring at the last remnants of a woman he didn’t know, whom he would never see again. He had probably served her, taken down her name, and given her a quote. So many watches came through their stores for repairs, and while he could remember what work this one needed, he couldn’t remember her name or her face. How fleeting an image he seemed to have of people. This was the first time someone had not returned in all his years of working at Smith and Zoe’s.

Erwin answered him blankly after a deep breath and moment of silence. “It seems the police have her phone in their possession.”

There was a sinking feeling in his stomach, an unsettling reminder of his own loss. Somehow this news poked at him, rubbing that sore spot raw again. He swallowed it away for now. “Shouldn’t her family have it?”

Jean could hear the grimace in Erwin’s voice, but couldn’t bear to see it. “As far as I could find out, she has -- had no family.”

“Friends?” His own voice cracked.

Ignoring the emotion tinting Jean’s tone, he answered solemnly, “I do not know.”

“Why are you giving it to me?” He had to look at Erwin’s face now, needed to read it for whatever answers it could give him that he would not. His great eyebrows furrowed together, blue eyes serious as always, with just a hint of melancholy pulling at his features. The man could bluff his way through anything, Jean suspected.

“This was your work, Jean.” Erwin cleared his throat again. Jean doubted he had ever had a watch left behind with no one to pass it on to. “You decide what to do with it from here.”

Jean protested, “I can’t keep it, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“No.” Erwin sighed. “I’m _telling_ you to find an owner, whoever that may be.” His hands reached up to correct the collar of his white buttoned shirt, then rolled up the sleeves to his elbows. “I don’t have any repair work for you today, but I do have an errand. I need you to get me more parts.”

Jean nodded, grasping onto the watch, knuckles turning white. Erwin grabbed him by the shoulder as he turned to leave. His body tensed at the touch, frozen in place.

Erwin simply added, “Take your time,” prompting an affirmative nod from Jean, now embarrassed by his instinctual reaction.

Jean took Erwin’s instructions seriously. As stern a man he was, he was incredibly pragmatic about his staff. He admired and rewarded hard work with the occasional leniency, citing that the team was no use to him if they were not 100% themselves. No doubt Erwin had seen the signs of the shaking that grew more pronounced in Jean’s hands when he walked away before he was aware himself. He might have to thank him later, but precedent suggested he never would.

Ymir’s husky voice shook through Jean’s daydream of a slow, warm day in the sun. “You should see Chris before you go.” Their eyes seemed to catch him by the collar and hold him until he responded. In silence, he glanced up at Erwin with a raised brow for an affirmative.

“I’ll allow it,” he said flatly, before closing the back room door to deal with the banking, signalling it was time for Jean to leave.

He waved a quick goodbye to Connie and Sasha, busying themselves with cleaning the glass. His fingers scratched at the insides of his pants’ pockets. Somehow his hands felt more comfortable there, where they could worry out of sight from passing eyes. The mall always felt strangely quiet when he walked through it without somewhere to be. A sea of people making their way past him didn’t seem that loud when his mind wandered. His thoughts were too far away for the sound to reach him. Smiles at children were easy, waits in line felt short, and the walk through the mall to the bank at the far end, over the sheen of the polished tiled floor, was peaceful.

Christa’s wavy, long blonde hair stood out against her little black dress, draped like silk over her shoulders. She appeared sweet and eager to please, as if there were cheer in her step when she stood behind the teller’s counter. Her eyes peered up with a bright glint to them with every new face that met her. Except the next customer that approached her, who caused a fault in her expression.

“You’re a very pretty girl,” the man complimented her, hands outreached to stroke her hair. Christa instinctively moved back to place space between them.

“Oh.” There was a delay in her response, a forced smile coating her words like sickly sweet honey. “Thanks.” It sounded insincere and almost disappointed, but the customer didn’t seem deterred by her tone. Jean cringed on her behalf, knowing how much she hated being called a girl.

The customer seemed unhappy with Christa’s response, making accusations at her and raising his voice. A myriad of aggressive threats were thrown at her. He leaned forward on the counter, closing the gap between them. Christa’s hand gripped the edge of the desk, mouth open and moving wordlessly, lips failing to grasp onto sound. Jean’s step quickened towards her.

The man’s fist hit the counter, shaking the computer monitor and rattling the pens sitting in their plastic confines. Jean could see the tightness in his throat and couldn’t stop himself from intervening. “That’s no way to treat a lady.” Jean heavily laid his hand on the desk beside the man. He stared, eyes drying and feet too afraid his bluff would fail to move the stranger. His concerns, thankfully, were unwarranted. The man huffed, gathered up his things, and left the bank. A sigh broke through his frustration and as his eyes met Christa’s he quickly blurted, “Sorry.” Her expression had changed to a disconcerted and unimpressed frown, eyes staring him down with the impatience that few were privileged enough to see. His arms withdrew to his sides and his hands threw themselves up in apologetic surrender. “Oh right, sorry. I didn’t mean to--”

“It’s okay, Jean.” Her silvery laugh let him relax his shoulders. She dismissed his lack of tact with a wave of her hands. “You were just trying to play the _gentleman_.”

“Trying?” Jean scoffed.

A playful smirk played at her lips. She had always found his facial expressions amusing. Jean was never sure whether to take it as a compliment or an insult. “Not all of us can be as good at it as Ymir.”

He rolled his eyes dismissively. His voice feigned a hopeless admirer. “I’d never have a chance over them, would I?” Their endless game of flirting taunts never seemed to end, despite neither of them having any interest in the other. Somehow it had become a defining part of their relationship. Even now, it was something Jean treasured.

She chuckled and shook her head, levelling her eyes on him. “No. You could try, but no.”

Jean cleared his throat and changed the subject. His hands delved back into his pockets. “So, you wanted to see me?”

“Oh.” She flicked her hair off her shoulder as she checked behind her. Eyeing her manager, she raised a hand, signalling the thoughts in her mind. “Let me just see if I can have my break.” She disappeared off to the side, leaving Jean resting on the counter and eyeing the clock ticking noisily on the wall. Christa returned quicker than he expected, and startled him from his daze. “You got a few minutes?”

Leaning against the wall outside made him feel strange. Together they watched a parade of people wander past them. It seemed they were ghosts themselves, unimportant and blending into the wall as if they belonged there, like they couldn’t be seen. His shoes scuffed agitatedly across the tiles as he curled and uncurled his toes inside. He felt strangely like a teenager, out here with Christa. Though he suspected it had something to do with her height and how at ease she was compared to his own awkwardness.

They exchanged a series of sighs, staring out across the floor and fidgeting with their hands by their sides. Jean waited for her to speak, sending glances her way in an attempt to prompt her. Each time he caught her fiddling with her hair, tucking it behind her ear and undoing it again, scratching at the undercut she hid under her long hair. Christa pursed her lips. Jean found it hard to look away when he saw how hard she was trying to speak.

“What is it?” he asked, turning his gaze away from her. It felt intrusive to leave it there. He didn’t need to add further pressure to whatever had already built up inside her from within.

She took a small silver object from her dress pocket and turned it over in her hands. “I don’t even know why I’m crying,” she started with a small, shaking voice, taking Jean by surprise. Her hair shrouded her face from his view, but he could hear the impending tears in the timbre of her voice. He could hear her breathing, suddenly louder now that he had started talking.

“I only met him a few times.” Her eyes looked up at him pleadingly. Jean nodded and edged closer, his lips parted, unsure of what to say. She returned her attention to the silver object, pressing it again and again with her thumb, revealing it to be a hair clip. Jean tried to reach out to her, but Christa didn’t notice any attempt he made. His hand hung awkwardly in the air with its fingers curled.

Christa continued, voice struggling to stay flat, “But he was really nice and I guess that made an impression on me?” The pitch in her voice shifted up with her uncertainty. Her thumb rubbed over a part of the hair clip - a small crown dotted with fake crystals. Their brilliance glittered with every shake of her hand and drew her attention. “He was kind. He listened. He was so enthusiastic about these stupid things I talked about, and he asked me questions.” Her voice cracked. A sob broke through her composure, her shoulders shaking with struggling breaths.

Jean reached out to place a hand on her shoulder. “Hey.” He didn’t know what else to do.

Christa’s eyes were red and glossy with tears when she met his eyes. “He _actually_ asked me questions. I was so surprised.” A laugh shook her chest and a wavering smile took to her face despite the tears. “I had to stop myself from smiling.”

“He was like that,” Jean muttered to himself.

He felt something brushing past his hand. Christa’s fingers searched out for him and grabbed onto his sleeve instead. Jean stood still and watched her. The two of them were so awkward and unnoticed by the crowd, but together they weren’t alone in this moment of remembering things past.  
  
Her voice affected by her tears, rising up and down beyond her conscious control, she asked, “Do you know how many people ask me questions about the stupid things I go on about?” She sniffed and wiped her face. “He was one of the very few. And I guess I never really knew how much that meant to me until right now. How silly is that?” Her blue eyes searched his for an answer to her confusion. “I didn’t even know him, really.”

Jean turned and pulled her to him, cradling the back of her head with as firm a grasp as he could muster. She sobbed and laughed in pleasant surprise, tears dripping from her chin. Jean closed his eyes and said quietly, “You knew the best part of him.” He pushed her back from him by the shoulders and caught her eye. Her nose and eyes were reddened, but her makeup remained intact. He felt a small wave of relief that she hadn’t cried harder. Jean didn’t think he’d be able to hold back his own if she had.

“How do you cry for someone you don’t even know?” she asked him. Jean didn’t have the answer. Christa had met Marco on more than one occasion. He had always been sweet to her whenever she’d wandered over to work when he was visiting, too. No one could deny that he had taken a shine to her.

She sniffed and rubbed the tears from her face. “Just the thought of him gone…” Her breath shuddered and her eyes dropped to her shoes. “He’ll never ask me questions again.” A loud inhale followed.

Jean didn’t know what else to say but “No.” His hand reached up from her shoulder and started to brush her hair away from her undercut. It had started getting long, but he wouldn’t mention it. He changed the subject. “Do you often hide it at work?”

Christa shrugged but let him continue brushing her hair behind her ear. “I have to look _presentable_. It’s easier with my hair down.” She clenched her jaw.

“And the dress? The makeup?” His hand dropped back to her shoulder. His eyes glanced up at the automatic doors of the bank, opening for another customer walking inside. “Are you okay like this? You’re not making yourself uncomfortable, are you?”

Christa placed her hand on his. “It’s fine, Jean.”  
  
He interjected, “Yeah, but --”

“It’s fine. I don’t always have to dress like this.” She rubbed her hands down the skirt of her dress and tapped her heels together. “I am what I am, and I know that. Some days this is fine and other days it’s not, but I choose what I wear, Jean.” Christa sighed and laughed at herself. “They can’t stop me from wearing a vest and tie. So there’s that.” She winked and patted his arm reassuringly.

“Chris.” Jean cleared his throat and withdrew his arms to scratch them. He felt self-conscious and exposed. “I still call you…”

“I’m not bothered. Really.” She smiled and shrugged.

“You tell me that, but…” Jean trailed off, breathing out a heavy sigh instead. “I feel I should be better than this. Better to you. I owe you that at least.” Jean nodded to himself, mentally going over how it felt to call her ‘they’ from now on. He felt embarrassed to have let it go on for so long when clearly it meant something to her -- them.

Chris interrupted his thoughts and poked his arm. “You’re going to do one thing for me.”

“Mmm?” His eyebrows rose expectantly. “Name it.”

“You’re going to go see him and give him this.” They took his arm, pressed the cold hair clip into his hand, and enclosed his fingers over it. Like it was a blessing, they held his hand closed for a moment before withdrawing their hands.

Jean opened his palm and stared, blinking several times to ensure he was seeing it in his hand. “He gave you that.” His hand curled into a fist to keep it safe. It felt wrong to take it from them, even with their insistence.

Chris bit their lip and closed their eyes before meeting Jean’s eyes with shoulders back, confident in their decision. “And that’s all I have to give back.” Their voice was firm.

Jean nodded a few times, more to convince himself that this was okay than for Chris’ benefit. He argued no further with them, and saw them off to the door. Their eyes were now clearer, and they breathed easier now that they had gotten so much off their chest. He felt relieved himself that they felt better. He gave them one last hug, shrugging off the stream of thank yous in his direction, and set off towards the cemetery. Surely, he justified to himself, the errand for Erwin could wait.

The sunlight littered the cemetery with the shadows of thousands of leaves, light filtering through the branches of gnarled oak trees. Its contrast with the last night he’d spent on these grounds unsettled him. It seemed too bright for the awkward relief and the choking fear of having lost Marco again. If he ever had even found him again at all, that is.

He opened and closed his eyes on his approach to the grave, pushing himself more than yesterday. It became a struggle to take steps, fearing another confrontation as much as he feared it had been all in his head. He had to know whether he’d imagined it or not. The great oak tree he hid beneath stood before him like a monument to his fears and doubts.

Jean took a relieved breath in when he noticed the gouges in the ground, the dried mud footprints, and the evidence of his panicked struggle to get away on the ground. Squatting down, he could not tear his eyes away from them, fingers reaching out to confirm he could feel what he saw. Somehow they provided the smallest of consolation to his worries. The doubt, however, had taken root, as crooked and contorted as the roots of the oak tree, telling him it may have still been his imagination. Perhaps this was how he dealt with grief, terrifying himself, building his own temporary comfort and ripping it away again just as hope had settled.

Day-old footsteps marked the ground through the cemetery. They formed a wobbly line, drawn across the ground towards Marco’s grave down the hill. Before it knelt a figure in a dark navy blue uniform. Jean froze in place. He sighed in relief when they removed their hat, revealing the the shine of golden hair beneath, wrapped up in a bun. Officer Leonhardt. He huffed something between a sigh and a laugh. He wasn’t sure which it was. He hadn’t suspected he would ever feel relieved to see her again, ignoring how much of his relief was at the fact it wasn’t Marco.

Nearby, staring off into the distance, waited another figure dressed in far too casual clothes. Her arms were crossed and face blank, except for the curl of a smirk on her thin lips. Hers was a face he seemed to recall from the funeral, but not one he could place. Light green eyes met his when he approached, peering out from stark shadows beneath thin blond eyebrows rising up to acknowledge him. Soft blonde curls swept across her face, caught by the warm midday wind.

Her voice broke the pleasant sound of cicadas calling across the glade with her own nasal chirping. "’Ey! She wants some alone time." Her thumb jerked back at Annie facing Marco's grave, bent down on one knee in solemn silence.

Jean stopped by the stranger’s side, keeping his distance and watching Annie with crossed arms. “How much alone time does she want with you on guard?”

“Enough.” She sauntered up beside him and mimicked his stance, swaying her hips to find a comfortable position, feet shoulder-width apart and boots digging into the grass. “You’ve gotta give her the time she needs.”

“So I’m just supposed to wait here? In line?” Jean crossed his arms. The blur of Annie leaving his room flashed in his memory. He never thought the next time he would see her would be here, let alone this soon. He figured he would spend years without needing to see her again and being reminded of his breakdown. Apparently that wasn’t how the world worked. He had learned that a lot recently.

“Yeah, pretty much.” The woman shrugged and turned to watch Annie. Her hands readjusted the top of her skirt and rested on her hips. She puffed out her chest and side-eyed Jean with a tsk of her tongue. “You got business with that boy?” The suspicion in her tone did not go unnoticed.

“I do.” Jean refused to face her just as she refused to face him.

“Your hair…” She tittered through the bite on her lip. Her face brightened as a thought struck her. “Oh fuck me, you’re Jean, aren’t ya?” Her hand slapped him on the back of his shoulder.

Jean nearly choked and turned to her with eyebrows drawn together. “And you are?”

She guffawed and ran her tongue across her teeth. “ _Officer_ Dreyse.” Smirk still on her face as though she knew something he didn’t, she nodded in Annie’s direction. “Though generally friends of friends call me by my first name, Hitch. I work with Leonhardt.”

Jean looked her up and down, from the curl of her hair, to her long-sleeved purple blouse, to the black laced boots squishing grass beneath her feet. It wasn’t what he’d imagined in a cop, especially not with her sudden outburst of laughter, nor with Annie only a few feet away. He asked her the first thought on his mind. “Did you know Marco?”

“I did.” She crossed her forearms and held her elbows in each hand. They both faced forward in silent understanding. A frown formed on her face, eyes falling to the ground. “Work is harder without him.” She exhaled through rounded lips slowly, as if releasing pent up air within her. Her hands rubbed the sides of her arms. “You should go on ahead.” Her head nodded towards the grave. “I’ll give you both some space.”

“Are you sure?” When he received neither an answer nor a glance, he approached Annie. She knelt before Marco’s grave with head bowed, muttering words under her breath that Jean could not make out. Her hand clutched at her knee, tugging at the hem of her muted dark blue dress and brushing at her black stockings.

“Did you really have to be here?” Jean greeted. He felt they were beyond pleasantries now. Her shoulders hunched up when she heard his voice. The hand on her knee stopped moving. The other fell to her side.

She gritted her teeth and forced her words through them. “Did I walk in on another moment of yours?” She turned her head over her shoulder and looked him over with spite. “I heard you weren’t even at the funeral.” Her blue eyes fixed on his with an icy glare.

Jean grunted, “Long story.” He sighed, defeated by his guilt, and stepped forward with trepidation. Memories of the night before swarmed through his mind. There was no sign of Marco. Perhaps it was the time of day, or the fact he had company. He couldn’t be sure. A mix of relief and disappointment ran through him. He was thankful that he wasn’t here alone to give in to his need to talk to Marco. Annie’s presence made it easier to bear, despite how uncomfortable he felt when he stood beside her, both of them staring down at the name of the man they knew.

She stood, giving him space before Marco’s grave. They each took a breath in turn, too stubborn to breathe in time. Jean fiddled in his pocket, fingers playing with the items hidden inside, and reminded himself of his errand. Grabbing everything inside, he pulled the contents out and placed them in his other hand: the silver crown hair clip, the rose gold watch, and lint, which he shook from his hand.

Leaning down on one knee himself, he placed the hair clip before the gravestone. It was considerably unceremonious to just put something down on the ground. There was a sense of accomplishment in seeing to Chris’ wishes, but he had no words to make it official. It felt empty and incomplete. Jean thought he should be doing more.

“Where’d you get that watch?” Annie growled through his reflection.

He stared blankly ahead of him, eyes turning slowly to the shine of the rose gold in his hand. “Huh?”

“The watch.” Annie insisted. She squatted beside him, intently focussed on his hand. Her own reached out for it in a gentle movement he would never have expected from her. “Where’d you get it?”

Stuttering in his surprise, Jean managed an answer with a dismissive shrug and a waving of his free hand. “At work? It was never picked up.”

“Turn it over.” Her command came as a mixture of a blunt order and a curious plea. It took Jean by surprise.

“Why?” His voice rose and betrayed his disbelief at her.

Annie snarled back, reasserting herself. “Just do it.” She was on her knees facing him, hands rested on top of them, clenched into fists.

“Okay...” As she bid, he turned it over on his hand. It was strange how the watch he’d worked on was somehow so important to her. He felt tense just seeing her staring at him with that intensity. Jean wondered if Marco had ever had the privilege of seeing this side of her. He suspected, considering the bruises from their training, Marco had seen worse than this still.

Annie pointed at the watch repeatedly, impatiently. “On the back, does it say anything?” She leaned closer, trying to read the back of the watch herself. The wind swept past them both. Loose strands of her hair were carried briefly with it.

“Uh…” Jean ran his finger over the back, moving the band aside. “Yeah, there’s an inscription.” His eyebrows furrowed and he glanced up to find Annie’s face mimicking his, though with more desperation in his eyes than he expected to see. “Why?”

“Read it to me.” It was another command, but it was softer this time. Her voice shook, too afraid to ask and be rejected, but too desperate to let it go. On her knees, Annie kept her shoulders squared, trying to maintain some semblance of control when every muscle in her tensed, ready to pounce at him to take the watch and read it for herself. It was beyond important to her.

He traced his thumb over the engraving on the back. It was in a small script across the back. “ _Why I do what I do,_ ” he read aloud thoughtfully, questioning the words. It meant nothing to him.

Annie huffed through her nose, lips pursing tight, eyes locked on his hand. She responded with a short burst of words that were unmistakable despite the rushed way she spoke them. “Give me the watch.”

“What? I can’t do that.” Jean shook his head and pulled his hand back in front of him.

“Give it to me. Please.” Her voice softened. Jean couldn’t believe she might actually be begging, and turned his head to know for sure. Her hand reached out to rest her fingers gingerly on his arm, though her eyes never moved away from the watch, as if looking away would mean she would lose it forever. He couldn’t be sure she wouldn’t overpower him to snatch it away.

Jean’s shoulders tensed. Confused, he sounded out the words Erwin had told him earlier. “I have to give it...”

“It was hers. _Please_.” Her voice broke and her body seemed to follow; both hands were on her knees, fingers curling back into fists, wanting to grab the watch from him. She breathed in, shakily, and forced the air out of her lungs. Annie hung her head in a way that almost appeared to be shame, and pointed vaguely behind him.

Seeing the way she hid her eyes with her fringe, Jean licked his lips and turned away, figuring he was seeing something he wasn’t meant to, somehow intruding on a private moment. He swallowed hard, turning fully behind him to see what he assumed she was pointing at. A sound broke its way through his stunned silence when he read the name on the grave beside Marco’s, appearing almost exactly the same except for the name.

 _In Memory of_  
_MINA CAROLINA_

 _Died_  
_March 24th, 2014_  
_Aged 21_

He couldn’t bear to read the last line in the stone, suddenly recalling the last time he saw that name. It had been written by his own hand.

_M. Carolina. Broken mainspring. March 22nd._

Annie grabbed him by the arm, fingers digging in and dragging his attention back to her face, which she kept trying to hide. “You don’t understand. I need that. It’s hers.” She touched the watch like it was fragile. “I need something of hers.” Annie choked on her tears and sniffled, drawing herself back up and holding up her chin, appearing to swallow her pride. “I don’t care what you want for it. I’d give anything. Just name it.”

“No. I understand.” Jean held it out to her in a flurry of movement. “You can have it.”

Her hand twitched, wanting to grab for it but hesitating. “What’s the catch?”

He withdrew it back to himself, peering down over it and remembering Erwin’s words. “Nothing. She meant a lot to you. Just take it.” Jean shoved the watch at her with a jingle of metal.

Annie reached out suspiciously, avoiding his eyes, taking it and snatching to back to her person. Jean barely heard her mutter, “Thank you.”

As she tucked it into her dress pocket with one hand, her other pulled out a thin necklace around her neck. “You might want this.” The necklace was a thin chain of gold and tugged at a pendant at its end that had been hidden and tucked beneath her dress’ neckline. As she held it out from her neck, Jean recognised it immediately. “This was Marco’s.” The pendant threaded on the necklace was a gold ring. It was dulled and scratched, but still shone in the way that Jean remembered it. He could make out the intricate crest of the Trost police made by Armin’s deft hands, just as he had commissioned.

His words were slow. The first thought in his mind was spoken in two awkward words, surprising himself with his tone. “I know.”

“Do you want it? You can have it.” She turned it in her fingers, stopping at the engraving on the side of Marco’s initials. “It wasn’t mine to take in the first place.”

“It seems a fair trade.” Jean stared at her fingers as she ripped the chain from her neck with excessive force and without flinching. She dangled it above his open hand, lowering it down slowly. “But the chain is yours?”

“Keep the chain,” Annie insisted. Before Jean could protest, she blinked and bluntly added, “It was my birthday gift from him. He completely surprised me with it just days before he…” Slowly closing her eyes, she let go of it completely. “I don’t deserve it.”

Jean simply nodded. He pointed behind him with a thumb. “I didn’t know.”

Annie looked unimpressed, and frowned with a sigh. “I’m not surprised.”

Defensive, Jean shrugged, grasping a tighter hold on Marco’s ring and Annie’s chain. “No one told me.” He could only assume Mina had been in the same group as Marco. No one had seen to telling him there were more casualties in the raid. People had decided that was more than enough news, apparently. It felt uncomfortable to be left in the dark.

“Who would have told you?” Annie gestured with a roll of her eyes, bitterness filtering her voice. Her tone was tinted with blame. “I tried to talk to you.” She threw her arms up into the air with a lack of enthusiasm. “I even tried to call you, but you seemed hell-bent on--”

“Can we stop this?” He dragged his hand over his face. He didn’t feel like fighting with her again. They had too much in common to not move past their own stubbornness.  There seemed no point in taking it out on each other, as angry as each of them were inside.

Her hands lowered, and as much as Jean could tell, she agreed. “I suppose.”

“We’re both bitter…” Jean began to explain, speaking aloud his thoughts to justify himself.

Annie interrupted with a grunt, “Speak for yourself.”

“You’re not helping yourself.” He tucked away the chain in his pocket with a chuckle. He wasn’t truly laughing.

Annie huffed at him. She didn’t seem much different from when he saw her last, but there seemed to be something more human about her now. There was now one more thing he knew and thought he understood about her. Suddenly her anger seemed somewhat more reasonable. If only he had known.

She crossed her arms and spoke lowly. “This doesn't make us friends.”

“No.” He ran his thumb over Marco’s ring in his hand, talking down to it. “It doesn’t make us friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in part dedicated to a person I knew who passed away while writing this. So this one in particular means a lot to me. 
> 
> I want to thank the readers. You've all been really supportive and I don't thank you enough. Don't ever be afraid to talk to me. <3
> 
> \---
> 
> French and Italian translation:  
>  _va bene?_ \- okay?  
>  _maman_ \- mom  
>  _Monsieur Grognon_ \- Mr Grumpy (reference to the Mr Men books)  
>  _D'accord_ \- okay
> 
> \---
> 
> If you liked this and want to share it, you can find the Tumblr post [here](http://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/post/121687056602/see-you-when-you-get-here-chapter-5-the-talk).
> 
> I would love to hear your feedback here or you can also find me on [Tumblr](https://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](http://twitter.com/foxberryblue) or on my writing only blog [Foxberry Writes](http://foxberrywrites.tumblr.com/).


	6. The Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _[ Jean looked away awkwardly, but Mikasa’s finger found his chest, resting against his left side with just the touch of the edge of her manicured nail. “He’s written on your heart,” Jean jerked his chin up to capture the expression on her face and found it as a struggling smile between her words, “and his handwriting is beautiful.” ]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take note this chapter contains mild sex scenes.
> 
> Italian translations at the end.

**\- Two years ago -**

 

Warm sheets and blankets were curled around Jean’s arm like soft clouds, his body snuggling into them in its search for comfort. His bare skin prickled at the chill of the early morning. His eyes caught a glimpse of his satin boxers before diving under the covers again. Every effort he could muster in his half-asleep state devoted itself to securing his warmth. A loud yawn beside him forced his eyes open again moments after they had closed. Blurry vision pointed at the ticking clock on the wall told him it was just past 7am. It was too early to get up yet.

“ _Buongiorno_ , Jean,” Marco’s voice sang, brighter than the sunlight peeking through the blinds of his room. He sounded blissfully awake to Jean, if not blissfully ignorant of the hour. “Do you want to give me my blankets back?” There was a tug from behind him. The blanket slipped off his legs first before it started pulling at the arm that held it tight.

“Yes…” he paused, growling through the tiredness that gripped him. He hadn’t slept well last night. “ _Giorno_ ,” he stated, repeating part of Marco’s words as if they tasted bad. “Don’t you fucking dare make me cold.”

“ _Honestly_!” Marco chuckled and corrected him. “ _È buongiorno_.” His fingers poked Jean in his side, prompting retractive jolts in Jean’s body, already curling up into the fetal position. Marco’s tone changed to one of mocking. “ _Che temperamento_! You complained it was too warm last night.”

“And now it’s not.” He grumped and rolled further with the blanket in his grip, twirling into it and pressing his face into the pillow. His words became muffled groans.

Marco’s hands let go with an amused sigh. “Honestly, Jean, how do you ever get up in the morning?” Without looking, Jean could tell Marco was shaking his head. There was a soft swish as Marco hit the pillow in a deliberate attempt for Jean’s attention, but Jean refused to give it to him. A sigh by his ear followed, breath warm against his skin.

“I don’t?” Jean protested, peeking up and around the room. The ceiling above him appeared so cold and blue beside the orange through the blinds. It was calming all the same. An off-white blankness spanned over the mahogany hues of the queen-size bed to meet the apricot tones of the walls running beside the chestnut drawers. It was a neat and simple room appropriate for a man who spent most of his life outside. No other room would do Marco justice than the sheer simplicity of this. Jean didn’t ever want to leave.

Marco’s chuckle rattled Jean’s persistent stare. “You can’t stay in bed all day.” His voice was tempting, but Jean buried his face into the pillow again, trying to block it out.

“Watch me.” His voice was muffled and his cheeks warmed with his breath. Huffing into the pillow, he didn’t care if Marco could hear him or not.

Weight shifted off the bed, tugging the sheets now tucked under Jean’s chest. Marco signed loudly for his benefit. “I’m going to get up and have breakfast.”

“Good.” Jean pushed himself up, flashing a grin at Marco. He splayed himself out on the bed in a dramatic motion before flopping his head down again, cheek landing on the pillow and his eyebrows egging Marco on. “Whole bed to myself.”

“Come on. _Andiamo_!” Marco tugged at the pillow but failed to remove it from Jean’s grasp holding it tightly. Instead, in his defeat, his fingers poked at Jean’s side, right above his hip. Jean recoiled automatically with a groan.

“Nope.” Drawing himself up with a mischievous grin, Jean rolled over to the side and, after grabbing a hold of Marco’s arm, heaved him onto the bed. Marco’s hand slammed against the mattress. A surprised yell signalled his fall. His limbs drew him up awkwardly onto the bed with a grunt.

It was an awkward jumble of limbs as Marco moved himself over Jean and surrendered to the blanket, digging his elbows into the bed to hold up his head. He shook with an amused disbelief, his eyes avoiding Jean’s. “Whenever you’re ready. I’m hungry and want to eat soon, you dork.”

As an idea popped into his mind, Jean bit into his lip, tasting the soft part with his tongue. He moved slowly closer, reaching out his arm, and when he was close enough, he dug his fingers under Marco’s side and wiggled his fingertips across Marco’s bare belly. His tickling prompted a loud guffawing and Marco collapsed and wriggled across the bed in a fit of laughter. “Jean, no!”

He laughed and continued, watching as Marco’s eyebrows seemed to press together and his laughter ran from his mouth like a warm stream of joy. He would have sworn Marco’s laughter could have melted ice. Despite his protesting hands, his glee sung out loudly as he thrashed against Jean’s persistence.

“Jean, stop it!” Marco tried to say seriously, his voice an octave lower than the pitiful squeals of a man in distress. “It’s not fa- hey!”

Jean took to running his fingers down Marco’s thighs. He started with gentle touches and circular motions over his knees and moved up to the hem of his cotton boxers. Even the lightest touch brought a muffled shriek or guffaw from Marco’s lips. He had always been so ticklish, particularly around his belly and his thighs. Jean knew just how to turn him into a gooey puddle of giggles. No matter how much Marco tried to return the favour, Jean was considerably more resistant to his attempts. A smirk at Marco’s lack of composure formed upon Jean’s face. It grew when Jean leaned closer and over him, but his hand suddenly found defiance when Marco’s firm hand grabbed his.

Jean huffed to express his disapproval. He attempted to pull away from the grip on his hand, but Marco only pulled him closer, entangling their fingers together to tighten his hold. He had always been the one to win any contests of strength. He was never one to show off or boast but when it came time to prove the point to Jean that he could knock him over whenever he liked, he took the chance. Part of that nature to him always made him shiver. There was something unsettling about the fact that a man this kind could put him on his ass so quickly, if he should see fit.

“Come on, lemme go,” Jean whined, moving his knees closer in his attempt to get a better vantage point. It didn’t make a difference no matter how hard he pulled. The blanket slid down his legs and revealed the bare of his back. His other hand still tickled away at Marco’s sides, but now the laughter had changed and Marco’s eyebrow rose a little as his eyes settled on Jean’s boxers.

The chuckle in his voice was low, a slight nod from his head to draw Jean’s attention down. Their eyes did not meet when Marco joked, “Good morning to you too I see.”

Jean already felt the flush in his cheeks, becoming hyper aware of the bulge in his boxers. Generally he would have woken up and his morning glory would have passed. It was nothing to particularly draw attention to, but Marco felt it necessary this morning. It wasn’t the first time either of them had noticed Jean’s tendency to wake up this way, but the first Marco had spoken up. Jean noted in the back of his mind to never make Marco wait for breakfast again. The words that left his mouth, however, were blunt. “You’re such an ass.”

“Jean, it’s fine.” He tried to calm his voice, but even biting his lip didn’t seem to stop the sounds of his amusement escaping from him. “You just woke up. It happens.”

Jean tugged again, leaning away, his knees pressing beside Marco’s thighs. Jean’s fingers opened and waved between Marco’s. It was amusingly futile. “Are you going to let go of me?”

There was a moment of consideration before Marco responded with a shake of his head. “Nah.” He smirked and narrowed his eyes before yanking Jean within reach so he could dig his fingers in Jean’s sides. He collapsed on top of Marco’s chest in a heap of limbs. His knees dug into the mattress and his hands crashed into Marco’s shoulders.

They both laughed at each other. Marco’s eyes closed, wrinkling around their corners, face lined by the shadows cast by the blinds. Jean closed his eyes with a twitch of his eyebrows. He held himself up while Marco’s hands ventured up his arms in an attempt to tickle him back, forcing both of their eyes open. When their gazes met, Jean took his turn to chuckle, tickling at Marco’s neck, and rested himself on his other hand. Marco laughed, wiggling in place, and swatted Jean’s weight-bearing hand out from under him. He fell with a sharp cry to thump on Marco’s chest.

There was a wheeze as the air was pushed out of both their lungs. Jean’s knees slid down the sheets with a soft whoosh. Their heads barely missed each other, but the breath from their laughter swirled around them.

Clearing his throat and readjusting himself, Marco’s lips brushed by Jean’s ear. “You’re squashing me.”

“Too bad. You brought this on yourself.” Jean gruffly responded, wiggling in spot on top of him, arms spread out wide. The movement felt good.

He tried to hide his reaction by clenching his jaw, but Marco noticed and very slowly pressed up against him. It was as if thoughts had been heard. “Yeah?”

Jean glanced away, tilting his head and nudging into the crook of Marco’s neck. He tested the feeling one more time, gently moving forward. The touch of satin caressed him while he tested if Marco felt as hard as he did, tongue lightly touching the back of his front teeth in anticipation. “Yeah.” He repeated Marco’s words with a soft exhale, eyes open and still avoidant, but waiting for an indication to stop. Not a word came.

There was a sharp hitch in his breath when he moved again, rubbing himself against the heat in Marco’s boxers, their chests meeting in an embrace. His strength lost itself to his desires and his growing need. He bucked his hips just so, moving back and forth in time with his heavy breaths. His chin brushed by Marco’s shoulder and Marco’s against his. The air filled with the sounds of their huffing, almost quiet, their heads turned separate ways, but their hands still bound together.

He gripped the sheets in his free hand, clutching them together like they might slip away. As his lips fell apart, he imagined all the things he could do with them, but lay helpless to the increasing rhythm he was building. He felt Marco’s chin rise and as he huffed a loud exhale, Jean followed suit, letting go of the pressure within him. He rested his forehead on the pillow. There was a small smile across his hidden face. Marco whispered in his ear like the sound of sheets brushing together and his hand let go, “ _Ciao bello_.”

Jean pushed himself up with a confused glance down at Marco’s serene expression. His chest was still rising and falling beneath his hands. Jean’s weight was hardly a hindrance to Marco’s strength. He could likely benchpress him if he wanted with all of his academy training.

“ _Bello_?” His voice was breathy and weak, a small whine. It always got to him that Marco could use a word that meant ‘beautiful’ so casually, especially for him, even though he knew it was different in Italian. He doubted it would sound the same way between friends if it were compared to the way he said it in his ear.

Jean rolled away, wriggling under the blanket, and buried his face into the pillow he rested on last night. He muffled more of his sounds, ignoring the wet warmth in his boxers.

Marco sat up quickly and threw the blanket off the bed to a low grumble in protest. He leaned over and lay a firm smack on the back of Jean’s thigh. “ _Si_ ,” he answered to a question Jean never asked.

“You’re such a --” His words were cut short by a knock at the door. Jean immediately rolled over and sat up, pulling the sheets up to his navel for fear the door was unlocked.

Marco passed a glance his way and answered, “Yes?”

“Marco, are you coming to breakfast?” Luca's sweet voice asked, tapping his feet along with his words. His nervous habit came in the form of tapping, small movements of his feet that calmed him when he became engaged in conversation.

Marco huffed for a moment and chuckled to himself. He passed a cheeky grin at Jean, earning himself a grimace of disapproval, and responds, " _Tra un momento._ " He changed for Jean's benefit, deliberately, like usual. "We'll be _coming_ very soon."

Jean swatted at him and yelled as furiously as he can manage in stage whisper. "Oh my God, what the fuck?!"

Marco shrugged and through his smile continued, "Jean just woke up. He finds it _hard_ to get _up_ in the morning." The sound of Luca’s feet shuffled at the door. His toes moved over the floorboards of the hallway with an impatience dance. Jean immediately felt a wave of terror that Luca might understand the reason for Marco’s emphasis.

Triumphant, Marco grinned, seeming more satisfied with his wordplay than anything else. Jean groaned and pressed his hand against his forehead. Leave it to Marco to make inappropriate jokes at his expense.

"Morning Jean." Uncertain, the voice called out, perhaps assuming he was not awake enough to answer. There was not a hint of surprise in his voice, but instead a sense of happiness at his expectations being realised.

Jean’s grimace grew into a smile. He ran his hand through his hair. Ruffling through it, he tried to fix the haphazard way his bed hair structured itself. "Hey kiddo." Luca had become happier to see him there in recent years, expecting to find Jean to be there and missing him when he wasn’t. It hadn’t always been so friendly between them, but it seemed Luca’s shyness had finally worn away.

"Mama's got food ready for you." Luca spoke louder, confident that he could pass on the good news. It was almost precious how much the boy had welcomed Jean into the family like a second brother. The nervous way that Luca seemed to seek his approval was heartening.

"Oh yeah?" Jean called back, watching Marco throw his legs over the edge of the bed. He had grabbed the box of tissues off his bedside table and Jean turned his head back to the door. He couldn’t afford to get distracted by Marco’s sense of timing.

Luca hummed cheerfully. “Yeah, Mama said you should both come down before it gets cold.” He ended his words with a hint of sing-song. As he grew older, he seemed to become more and more like his brother. The very sight of him had become a form of nostalgia and the sweet affection Jean felt for him grew with every passing day that he could compare him to his older brother.

Marco interrupted Luca’s attempt at conversation, pushing the box of tissues towards Jean. “We’ve got to have showers and get dressed, Luca.” A small noise followed, a sound of disappointment.

“Oh, okay!” Luca piped back. Footsteps shuffled anxiously back and forward outside the door. Where Marco was solid and certain in how he held himself, Luca was hesitant and shrugged his shoulders together in a permanent sense of uncertainty.

Before Jean could answer, busy cleaning himself up, Marco stood and stretched, speaking through his tensed chest and arms, “We won’t be long.” His back muscles rippled with each turn of his head and raise of his arm. Police academy training looked good on him.

Footsteps left across the wooden floors, creaks sounding Luca’s departure, and the hallway followed in chorus with squeaks and thuds under the weight of his little feet.

Marco gathered towels for each of them, throwing one into Jean’s face, and left first to wash himself. The shower was short, but Jean’s impatience pushed him to wait outside the bathroom door by Marco’s bedroom with his towel held before the wet patch on his boxers. No sooner had Jean become impatient than the bathroom door opened and Marco waltzed out with just a towel around his hips. The steam swirled around him, white and fresh and warm, with drops of water trailing down his chest as he walked by, pleased with himself. Jean followed with a quick, cold shower, taking only as much time as he needed before rushing back to Marco’s room to get changed.

Jean chucked the box of tissues off the bed and onto the bedside table. Taking its place, he threw his legs over the edge of the bed and reached for a fresh pair of boxers he’d left on the floor before pulling them up his legs. He searched around further for the clothes he had worn last night, but only found his pants. His shirt was nowhere to be seen, but he wasn’t about to spend ten minutes looking for it or go downstairs without it. “Do you know where my shirt is?” He looked over to Marco, who had slipped on his underwear and shrugged himself into a blue polo shirt.

“I didn’t take it off, so... no.” Marco rifled through the wardrobe for a pair of pants, pulling out drawers one at a time.

Jean stared at the back of his neck with a mild frown. “Just chuck me one of yours.”

Marco sighed. Jean could hear the eyeroll in his voice. This wasn’t the first time Jean had been too lazy to look for his clothes. “You lazy ass, get your own clothes.” A shirt hit Jean square in the face before he could register it coming and blink.

“Why? Yours fit.” Jean pulled the shirt over his head. It fit him loosely, parts of the fabric hanging off him unlike the way it usually clung to Marco. It crossed Jean’s mind that he should perhaps exercise more often -- be as fit as Marco was -- and then he swiftly shook it from his mind. It wasn’t his thing. Not if he could help it.

Slipping a foot into a pant leg, Marco faced Jean with a look of amused disapproval. “You need to start bringing your own clothes and not misplacing them in my room.” His foot hit the floor with an intent thud. He swiftly followed with the other leg.

“What? And store them in your wardrobe?” Jean got off the bed and searched around the floor, picking up his boxers and shoving them into Marco’s laundry hamper by the door. “It's not like my shirt is wearable even if I do find it. It needs a wash.”

He shook his head, his eyes closed, with a huff and a sigh. Marco buttoned his pants closed below his navel and zipped up his fly. “So do you.”

“Hey! I just had a shower!” Jean’s face sat between laughter and a frown but he held both back. He ended up with a pout and an accusative glare at Marco’s faux expression of innocence. “Maybe you would do a better job..”

Marco scratched his neck and headed towards the door. “After food. I’m starving.” He had always been grumpy before breakfast, though it never seemed to hinder his sense of humour. Where Jean would not need to eat for hours, and breakfast too soon after he woke would make him nauseous, Marco needed to eat as soon as he was capable of putting it to his mouth. Without his first coffee of the morning, he had considerably less tolerance for Jean messing with him.

Jean couldn’t help himself and whined, “Marco…”

A dead stare met his eyes. Marco’s hand was firmly on the doorknob. He paused to talk authoritatively, a tone he had no doubt been practising. “Breakfast. Now, or it's a pillow to the head.” He opened the door and gestured outside, standing tall with shoulders broad and chin held up. He was one gesture and a few tones away from treating Jean like a perp or a dog.

His chin up, with a grin on his face, Jean sat defiantly down on the bed again. “Oh, what if I resist?”

Marco crossed his arms and looked out the door to avoid Jean’s eyes with disgust, tapping his shoe in his impatience. “Don't you dare.” His shoulders tensed, waiting for it.

Jean didn’t let him down. “Are you going to arrest me?”

Marco rolled his eyes and stepped suddenly toward Jean. He pulled Jean to his feet with the utmost of ease and put him into a hold with his arms behind his back. Jean struggled but remained held in Marco’s strong grasp. With a small grunt, Marco pushed him out the door.

“Worth it.” Jean chuckled to the sound of Marco grumbling through clenched teeth and the way his face avoided eye contact as they made their way to the breakfast table, struggling not to smile.

Rosa Bodt had prepared the table with large plate of pancakes. An assortment of condiments from jam to maple syrup were scattered around a small pitcher of cream that glimmered in the centre of the table. Plates and cutlery surrounded their selection, bright, shining silver and white. She sat at the table, messy dark ringlets held back by a gold clip in her hair, dark eyes finding Jean’s as soon as he entered. They were the eyes of a woman who could see through his lies and see the truths hidden within. If he ever wanted to lie to her, it was better to be silent than to speak at all. Rosa Bodt was a sweet woman and kind and ever so patient, but if she detected waffling and deceit, her open mouth would cut through it as quickly as if her tongue was a blade.

Luca sat down at one end and pointed to the chairs beside him, facing his mother. His arms were folded on the tabletop, chin nestled on his hand and his face downcast as he waited silently. Three pancakes sat stacked on his plate. The warm aroma wafted up to greet Jean as he sat down. Luca smiled widely with his lips pressed together. His eyes lit up. He knew he could finally eat now everyone was seated.

“I swear Marco only ever sleeps in when you’re here, Jean.” Rosa broke the silence, passing the raspberry syrup to Luca’s waiting hand. Words did not need to pass between them. “Normally he’s up before dawn to watch the sunrise.”

Marco picked two pancakes from the centre stack and claimed them for himself. “I spend most of the time trying to get him out of bed.” He gestured towards the cream down the other end and passed a sly look in Jean’s direction.

Jean eyed him with a narrowed glare, attempting to hide the change in his expression from Rosa, and scoffed. He took his turn to take three pancakes for himself. They flopped satisfyingly on his plate. He quietly asked Luca to pass him the golden syrup and began to pour it across his breakfast. Luca tucked into his food quickly with a happy smile and a pleased hum at everyone at the table.

“I think it does you some good,” Rosa smiled back. She possessed the same cluster of freckles across her face and wrinkles in her nose when she smiled. The light in her eyes when she looked at her sons sent a warm spark in the air and if he focussed closely, in the brief moments that his own eyes and hers met, Jean could swear he saw the same light that glowed at them.

There was warmth in the deep brown of her eyes now, her eyebrows raising up in interest. “So, you’ve got the day off today, Jean?” She nibbled a tiny mouthful of pancakes smothered in butter, lemon, and icing sugar. She was a fan of sour tastes, and lemon was by far her favourite. She swallowed it quickly to ask another question. “How’s work been treating you?”

“The usual.” He had seen them only last week. He swore Rosa took her time in asking questions so she always had more to say. She liked to know what he was doing, what he planned on doing, and how he was feeling. She made every attempt to make him feel a part of the family. It felt warm and comforting to know he had somewhere else where he was welcomed, somewhere else where he belonged.      

A clutter of metal on china rang out from Jean’s left. Luca’s eyes were wide and shone in the dim glow of a kitchen in the morning. He had the look of a child who had been awake for hours. The thought of Luca enjoying coffee the same way Marco did both amused and horrified him. He pictured this curly-haired kid bouncing around the house with his voice higher and more excited than ever. Looking between Marco and his younger brother, he could see the family resemblance. Luca looked like Marco when he was younger, just darker and curlier in hair and with darker eyes that looked to him with hope. Jean stole a glance at Marco just to be sure.

“Did you have an expensive watch this time?” Luca drew back his attention, face awaiting his gaze. He had become somewhat inquisitive of Jean as of late and the kid remembered more than Jean thought a nine-year-old could. He was swiftly learning how wrong he was.

“Expensive?” He returned a small grin. The syrup on his freshly cut piece of pancake dribbled down to his plate as he held it aloft. It tasted of sweetness and comfort on his tongue with the fluffiness soft between his teeth.

With a mouthful of pancakes and smiles, Luca answered with an excited, “Yeah,” his eyes big and awaiting the world with a sense of fascination he knew only Luca to have.

“Well, there was one that…” Words trailed away from him. The job was day in, day out, and it became hard to come up with something new each time that Luca asked. He had become increasingly interested in the watches Jean fixed and how they fit together. As early as seven he had been asking how watches worked, assuming anyone who wore one would happen to know. Jean thankfully had the answer. “It had a wooden frame!”

Luca swallowed and wiggled back with a quizzical look on his face. “Wooden?” His nose wrinkled, eyebrow raised, and voice rose, more hesitant to believe Jean than not believing at all.

“Mmhmm. Quite old. Very delicate though.” Jean nodded and cut another piece of the pancake for himself. It was warm against his tongue. The flavour danced across it as he hummed and tilted his head, passing a smile to Marco.

Luca stared at him still. The corner of his mouth turned up, but it was more a gesture than a smile as he still awaited Jean’s words. Swallowing his bite, Jean chuckled down at his chest and exchanged a smile with Rosa across from him. She sat silently, glancing at her sons with a brightness and pride behind her eyes. Jean nodded for no reason in particular that he could understand, but he knew, at least, that here he was home.

He placed his cutlery down with a clink, his knife brushing over the china. His arms folded over each other, his eyes looking upward to the ceiling like it would provide him with answers. “See, wood isn’t very common these days. It’s quite rare to see one like that.”

Marco watched him, trying to be subtle in his movement in the corner of Jean’s eyes, and carefully put another pancake on his plate. It was the quietest he had been all morning. He always seemed to grow quiet whenever Luca was talking. It seemed to give strength to Luca’s voice and Luca’s sense of self, knowing that people were patiently and attentively listening to his words.

“Oh?” Luca’s little eyes widened. Too hungry to wait, he stuffed his face with a large pancake piece and continued talking. “So, it’s a special kind of watch then? Is it old?” Crumbs fell from his mouth, dotting themselves across his yellow sweater.

“Eat with your mouth closed,” Rosa chimed in with a small chuckle hidden in her words. Luca promptly nodded, looking down at his plate, and hurriedly chewed through his food, swallowed, and cleared his throat. With two short nods, Jean took his leave to answer him.

“It was very old.” He felt his eyebrows rise up with his voice in the kind of mock wonder and emphasis he seemed to only reserve for Luca, excited by the tales of a job so very mediocre to him.

Luca offered over another pancake to Jean, who, having not finished his yet, declined and shook his head. He offered them to Rosa and Marco, who also declined. With a small shrug, he took the rest onto his plate and started to wolf them down. Syrup and cream pooled together in a messy swirl. Luca had a way of messing his plate in the most artistic way he could manage. Marco only looked on with smiles. His own plate was spotless, cutlery placed neatly across the middle. The silence that followed between them was comfortable and warm like a content Jean had always wanted. It felt like home.

A shadow fluttered over the table, slowly moving its way across the condiments. Looking up, he found its culprit, circling above their heads, was a single black moth. Its wings were dark against the white ceiling. It stopped by Marco’s shoulder, prompting a smile from his face, and as he reached to touch it with the tips of his fingers, it remained unmoved.

While Luca chuckled and Jean stared, Rosa made a barely audible gasp. She swatted it away from the table, muttering Italian curses under her breath. A shadow crossed her face, an expression Jean had never seen before. Somewhere between anger and worry, it sat jauntily on her features. Her thin eyebrows narrowed, entire forehead tensed, and her lips drew into a scowl. She stared off as it left the room. Her hand reached out and patted at Marco’s shoulder, wiping away whatever might have remained of the moth.

Looking genuinely concerned Marco spoke slowly, “ _Tutto ok_ , Mama?” His gaze lingered on her lips, his own smile lost to the awkward silence that settled across the table. Jean sat confused and unsure of whether he should say something.

It was Luca who broke the silence, his voice a quiver in the mess of quiet shuffles and clearing of throats. “Could you stay with us, Jean?” The words ran out from his tongue quickly, likely they had sat in his mouth for days, if not longer. His eyes were wide with hopeful expectation.

“Luca!” A small crack found its way into Marco’s throat somehow. Jean’s eyes travelled between them, both embarrassed and coloured by their outbursts. They were more akin to each other with every passing year.

Small face downcast at his plate, Luca shrugged. “It was just an idea.”

 

* * *

 

**\- Present Day -**

 

The music pulsed through the underground bar like a heartbeat in Jean’s chest. While those around him danced and drank with bright smiles and loud laughter, he stared himself into a trance, where the music blended and blurred into the walls and the voices around him became additional lyrics to yet another song he didn’t know.

Originally a gathering to celebrate Eren’s birthday, it soon evolved into a celebration of Jean’s, too, being only a week later. An economical arrangement, they called it. Jean didn’t mind. At this stage he barely felt ready for any form of social gathering, and the strange kind of silence that the loud music offered him was a blessing. He could curse at the ringing in his ears later when he woke up the next morning, probably still hungover from the unknown number of shots he drank for both himself and Eren. Apparently Eren didn’t have the heart to say no to their friends’ kindness, despite having chosen never to touch the stuff. Jean offered to keep up his charade and drank both their offerings. He didn’t think it would hurt.

To his left, Eren looked positively pleased by Jean’s discomfort. He enjoyed the way he could feel the music in a small place like this, as Mikasa told him in translation. Jean could tell without her help that he liked it here. Leaning back against the firm cushion of the circular bench, he stretched his legs out in front of him, arms crossed across his chest for long periods, eyes closed to really feel what Jean could hear.

Mikasa sat to his right with one leg crossed over the other. She fiddled with the straw in a tall glass of multi-coloured cocktail. Its contents glowed under the dimmed lights of the room, a cheery sight amongst the dark, brown interior decorating and Mikasa’s darker indigo dress. She looked far more at home here than Jean would have expected. Everything she did had an ease to it, making the world seem far more simple than it was, and it prompted him to wonder how she saw the world.

“Hmm?” She hummed, taking a sip through her straw and catching him staring. Pulling herself up into position, straw held daintily between her fingers, she confronted him in a confused tone, “Are you okay, Jean?” Her eyes settled on him like a feather, her breath stalling like she might spook him.

Not sure how to answer, he blinked, suddenly aware of how often he licked his lips. “I…”

When no words followed, her hand reached out tentatively and landed on his arm. It gave a reassuring squeeze before she continued for him. “If you’re not comfortable, you don’t have to be here.” Her eyes searched for something in him this time, though he had no idea what that was.

Looking away, he feared what she might find in there, like the thoughts that waxed and waned with every movement of his head, however small. He wondered whether or not she could see that he knew something and hoped she could not. “It’s not that.” He breathed in deeply. “It’s just --”

She took no time in interrupting him with that blunt chill she carried upon her shoulders like a quiver. “What is it then?” Her sharp words hit him squarely between his ribs.

Jean checked behind him to see where Eren’s attention lay, finding it thankfully wasn’t in his direction. Rather, Eren had taken to nodding back assuringly to Armin dancing with the others in the crowd. Armin’s face twisted between confused and terrified, eyes turning from his shoes to Eren’s amused face. The poor guy seemed to have two left feet and the best he seemed to be able to do was put a curve in Eren’s lips.

Satisfied, Jean turned back to find Mikasa peering over Jean’s shoulder before her sharp eyes returned to meet his. She drew another arrow of words from her quiver. “Would it be better outside?”

His hand waved away her concerns. “No, no. I’m fine.” A small shake of his head deflected her gaze down to the sticky floor.

“It hits you pretty hard when it happens,” she said slowly, head unable to rise with the heaviness that weighted her words. Strands of hair fell across her nose, their touch soft across her face, and her lips parted and twitched before she continued. “You know it’s a reality, something that can happen, but it’s always... something that happens to other people. People that aren’t you.” More hair fell to frame her eyes, dancing with the faintest flutter of her eyelashes. “We’re here if you need us, but if you need us to not be here, that’s okay too. Don’t force yourself.”

“I’m not. I’m really not,” he tried to assure her. The words felt strange. While he answered her, dismissed her concern, a sense of his state of being seeped into them, like he was trying to call out for help. He was not doing okay, not with images of Marco’s spectral form floating in his brain, but he couldn’t tell her that.

Mikasa shrugged, gaze never leaving him. “If you’re sure.”

He joined her shrug and passed a glance over at Sasha and Connie dancing back to back in the crowd. His face twitched into a smile and settled into a tight line. “It helps me forget that he would’ve been here.” Jean imagined how Marco would have been dancing with them, making his way between Sasha and Connie before pushing them together, holding Armin’s hands to show him how to dance, and dragging Jean out with them. His mind showed him images of Marco smiling and laughing, shouting drinks for everyone. Somehow it felt so close and so real, despite knowing that it would never be.

“Mmm.” Mikasa’s hum said it all to him. Together they watched as Ymir twirled Chris with a flick of their wrist. Chris ran into Ymir’s chest and chuckled under their chin. They both appeared so happy together, surrounded by their friends.

Watching everyone in the thrum of the music and the crowd, Jean continued with his eyes locked on Connie’s shuffle. “I swear it’s like he’s still here.” His voice was softer, perhaps too soft, but as he spoke Mikasa never asked him to repeat himself for lacking of hearing.

Her flat, soft tone was just as quiet. “Well, he is, in a way.”

His chest tightened and his stomach heaved, twisting as if to hide the jolt those words sent through them. In a way. Jean had seen Marco, had talked to him, had seen him form and change, and had seen him disappear. Even now Jean couldn’t be sure of what he saw and how real everything was, but he wouldn’t dare mention it to anyone for fear of losing the hope it sparked in him in favour of the cold reality that it likely wasn’t real.

“He’ll always be with you.” There was a faint smile on her lips but not in her eyes. A softness took over her face, like silk draped across her shoulders; it rested delicately and beautifully upon her features. It was perhaps the most serene he had ever seen her, bright eyes framed by dark hair and a sincerity that emanated from her as she uncrossed her legs and wrapped a foot around the other ankle.

Jean looked away awkwardly, but Mikasa’s finger found his chest, resting against his left side with just the touch of the edge of her manicured nail. “He’s written on your heart,” Jean jerked his chin up to capture the expression on her face and found it as a struggling smile between her words, “and his handwriting is beautiful.”

He returned the smile, resisting the stinging in the corners of his eyes. Not sure what to say, he nodded and said a quiet thank you, and in the awkwardness that grew between them, he turned back towards the dancefloor.

A loud stomping of boots broke Jean from his daze, and a face leaned over in front of him with a wide grin and freckles. Ymir slammed the table in approval, as Ymir seemed to do, jolting everyone to their attention.

“Look who finally showed the fuck up,” they yelled through the chatter of everyone around them. “Didn’t think you were you up for this kind of shindig.”

Their arm wrapped its way around Chris’s waist beside them, holding them firmly.

Chris beamed, placing a pair of shots on the table, sliding one to Eren and the other to Jean. “Happy Birthday to both of you.”

Eren accepted his with a smile and a wink at Chris, who chuckled and quickly checked for Ymir’s expression. They hadn’t noticed the wink and instead had punched Jean in the shoulder.

He grimaced and rubbed his arm to the tune of their laughter. “Good to see you out and about, mate. We’ve all been a little worried ‘bout ya.” Despite how gruff they seemed, they still had their own way of getting along with everyone. Though Jean seemed to notice much of it involved bruises on his arms. Today, however, being social for the first time in a while, he didn’t mind.

“You both owe me a dance!” Chris insisted before excusing themselves and dragging Ymir away with them, leaving Jean with a shot of clear liquor held firmly in his hand.

It tasted sweet across his tongue. By now he couldn’t remember what number it was, adding to the warm fuzzy feeling spreading from his navel to the flush in his neck. Every breath felt more relaxed, and there were moments where Jean was sure the alcohol was the only reason that he could manage to stay surrounded by all his friends having fun.

Eren tapped the table and pushed over his shot glass. Jean wondered for a moment how Eren managed to keep up the charade, but said nothing. They simply nodded in unison, confirming the silent agreement between them. Eren signed a brief thank you, earning a chuckle and an accusing finger from Jean. “I’m going to feel this in the morning, you know.”

He wasn’t wrong when he woke up the next morning, hair a matted mess and last night’s clothes half-unbuttoned around his chest. The light of the late morning seared his vision, seeming to squeeze tears from his eyes like they could treat the dry feeling in his throat. He immediately regretted not drinking enough water last night.

His pillow vibrated with the low groan that seeped out of him. A sound he would no doubt make for the rest of the day, considering how much he had thrown back last night. He was sure that Eren would be more than amused that Jean felt like he’d washed up as a prune on a desert beach. If he had the energy to curse at the world, he might have, but instead he pushed himself up from his bed and undressed in the manner of a child in the dark.

Dressing comfortably in a hoodie, jeans and a tee, he had every intention of seeing the day through with as little effort as possible for today was the day he planned to visit the Bodt family. It had been over a year since he had seen them last. Somehow their connection seemed to fall apart into dust when Marco wasn’t around, and now… the idea of venturing into Marco’s childhood home set him on edge. Though he wouldn’t admit it, he knew that was why he had been so amiable about drinking Eren’s share.

The Bodt household rose out of the ground with white wooden pillars and intricate latticework surrounding the one-storey brick house of cream. The garden encircled it like a ring of flowers, garden beds full of lavender and pansies with a patch of white jonquils by the the front porch. Wooden blinds hid the interior from the outside world, tilted just so to let the morning light in.

Walking up the front stairs to the door, he shrugged into his grey hoodie as if trying to hide his shame beneath it. The hood sat up and over his head, its hem lying around his forehead, and he wished he could disappear beneath it so he would not need to see their faces, or them his. Jean hadn’t spoken to Rosa since she called him. She hadn’t called him, and he hadn’t called her. Now he wanted to smooth things over, make everything right again, but whether he could hold himself together before the family he let down, he would have to find out.

The wood sounded empty behind the rap of his knuckles. There was a quiet shuffle and the soft tread of shoes on carpet. A whisper passed behind the door, but the words did not reach his ear. The door creaked open, slow and hesitant, to reveal the large eyes and dark curls of Luca Bodt, peering up uncertainly, standing behind the door like it was a shield.

“Hey buddy.” The words rolled off his tongue with the taste of familiarity he thought he’d lost.

Luca’s response was delayed, following a long trailing glance over him with no judgement in his eyes. “Hi Jean.”

“Can I…” He paused, unsure how much of an imposition his question would be. He wasn’t sure if he was even welcome in their house anymore, especially after he skipped the funeral. “Can I come in?” His eyebrows tensed, and he wished more than anything for Luca’s face to smile at him once more, like it used to.

Luca glanced behind him and nodded to an unseen person, checking for permission before he pulled the door open. He stood dressed in a black and blue button down shirt and matching shorts, the closest Jean imagined that Luca had in the way of mourning clothes. His chest squeezed a little tighter at the thought. Taking a closer look at Luca’s clothes, Jean nearly choked when he realised they were so familiar. They were clothes that Marco had once worn on a road trip, perhaps even at the same age. As far as Jean knew, Luca had never owned dark-coloured clothes, and the sudden stark contrast to the bright child in his memory made him feel more uneasy stepping into the house that felt like a second home.

Talkative, inquisitive Luca wasn’t the boy that answered the door. His eyes remained downcast, more interested in his bare feet than the series of worried looks on Jean’s face. Mumbled sounds left his lips and his eyebrows twitched in the way only Luca’s did when he wasn’t sure what to say.

Unsure of what words to use himself, Jean stood inside as Luca closed the door behind him. He shuffled off his shoes and tucked them by a row of a shoes by the front door. His socks felt strangely comfortable against the rough nap of the carpet beneath his toes. Something in him rebelled against the feeling, a part that believed he was not worthy of it.

Luca spoke softly and quietly beside him, hanging back just behind him like a haunting shadow. “Mama’s in the garden.”

"What's she planting this time?" Jean asked with a small smile. Rosa had always loved gardening for as long as he had known her. When her husband passed away five years ago, she had taken to the garden more often, fueling her grief into the flowerbeds and shrubs. Jean could only imagine she had been doing the same now that she had lost Marco too. His smile melted away at the thought.

"Jonquils..." Luca trailed off and stared down the hallway towards the garden. The rear sliding door revealed glimpses of it amongst the dark reflections on the glass. "She really likes them now."

Jean followed his stare, catching glimpses of movement outside and stealing glances down at Luca. The kid was a lot shorter than Marco was at his age, coming only up to his chest, but he had grown considerably since the last time he had seen him. The pair of them stood stone-faced and quiet, the cold snap of understanding passing between them without movement or sound, which he broke with a flat, "Has she been out there long?"

Luca answered him in kind, "All morning." The 12 year old sighed, sounding older, almost too much like his brother but with none of the hope and wistfulness of the future that Marco had always had. "She doesn't come in until lunchtime." Standing beside him, Jean peered down with a curious wonder at the way this inquisitive and bright and charming young boy had somehow aged so much in such a short time. Jean couldn’t shake the way his face remained unchanged, how his tone remained steady, and how his mother’s apparent obsession had left him here alone in the house answering the door at 12 years old.

Luca cleared his throat and shuffled his feet, rubbing against the nap of the carpet. Slowly, at first, he brushed against it with his foot until the movement seemed to have generated enough power to spark the courage in his chest to speak. "Did you come here to help me?" There was a hint of hope in his voice now, eyes wide and suddenly on Jean’s, open and bright with an innocence that Jean thought he could see and hoped was still there.

Jean scratched under his chin at the itch spreading across his skin, perhaps under it, moving over his chest. "Help you?"

"Marco's room. Mama said we need to organize things." His gaze turned to the rear door, towards his mother's direction, face reflected back at him like a ghostly apparition. "She can't..." He uttered a series of ums and ahs, jumbled sounds trying to form themselves but merely swimming in the air.

Jean placed a hand on his shoulder with all the delicacy that one uses to touch something fragile, something so delicate that touch itself might break it. He had to wonder whether he thought he might break Luca, or whether the damage had already been done. Luca did not allow the thought to sit for long and slipped away, shrugging his shoulders and gesturing with a nod towards the hallway. He slipped past Jean, swift and silent, weight balanced on the balls of his feet.

Before Jean could catch up, Luca took a corner at the end of the hall and disappeared from sight. His footsteps were concealed by the sound of Jean’s struggling to catch up with the heavy sense of dread weighing him down. While his legs were longer than Luca’s, making it easy to have caught up in a couple of steps, Jean wasn’t sure that he wanted to. He knew where Luca was going. He could follow that path in his sleep, and he just about had on numerous occasions.

The doorknob in his hand felt cold when he opened the door. Memories of winter mornings and summer nights flooded his mind, mingling with the sounds of Marco’s voice, the way his room would smell whenever he came over, the way his childhood bed would squeak at the slightest movement. Everything Marco was here and in one way or another he could see it all.

The room seemed to present itself to him at the end of his daze. It was warm, like he had been, and strangely welcoming, like home. His bed had been pushed into the corner, mattress upright and slanted against the wall, making it appear uprooted in its relocation. Boxes lay across the floor in the other corner, half-packed and nothing sealed. The wardrobe doors were open, revealing Marco’s collection of clothes he left at home: a jacket with stains from a family camping trip, an old collared shirt from a temporary summer job, and the suit he’d worn to his father’s funeral with the tie Jean had helped him tie.

Breath taken from him, Jean retreated to the hollow wooden frame of the bed, collapsing from the overwhelming thoughts in his head onto the edge, feet tucked underneath him, hands clawing into the mahogany. Luca shuffled up beside him, endearing in every movement, and together they stared at the way the grey of the carpet was faded in places.

Jean felt they might end up doing a lot of staring. He couldn’t bring himself to look into Luca’s eyes and be reminded of Marco’s face, and he suspected Luca didn’t want to see the hurt in his eyes. In silent agreement, they mirrored each other, legs parted and hands rested in their laps, heads tilted down at the ground as if in silent prayer.

Luca spoke first. The tremor in his voice echoed off the walls of the room, Marco’s things creating just the right arrangement in their new locations to make the room feel all the more hollow. “What’s it like being an only child?”

Jean’s throat closed before he could answer. Muscles tightened in his neck and an ugly, choked cough forced its way out so he could take a desperate breath in. His face dropped, all notions of avoiding Luca’s face disappearing, replaced by a confused desire to know. “Why would you ask that?”

Luca stared at this thumbs. They pushed and pressed and squeezed his tensing hands, wringing them as if to wash his hands clean of the look on his face. “That’s what I am now. It’s only me.” He shrugged his shoulders forward, making himself smaller than he already was. All the things he used to do before he could talk to Jean. Seeing it all again hurt.

“Uh…” Jean didn’t know what to say. He had never been a sibling to know how it felt to have one, let alone lose one. Nothing he could say would make it better. In his nervousness, he pulled his phone free from his pocket, swiping over the screen to find his text messages. Jean gulped and drew Luca near with an arm over his shoulder and a rough tug. “I don’t know. I can’t tell you that, but I can tell you that your brother…”

Jean knew everything he wanted to say, everything he should have said, but his mind stalled. His hands patted Luca’s shoulder, hoping movement would get the gears going again. Marco’s name stood out amongst the messages on his phone, his name in bold. No matter how many times he read them, Jean always marked them as unread so he could find them and read them again.

Sorry I didn’t get back to you. Been a mess here. Look after Luca for me. Chat soon.

08 Feb 2013 23:43

Glad I got to see you. I thought I was kidding about being busy but nope, not serious enough. Keep me updated!

16 Feb 2013 03:25

I’m getting really bad with this. Academy’s gotten really strict lately. We’ll catch up soon, okay? tvtb

27 Feb 2013 08:16

 

“See?” Jean pointed to the message with Luca’s name. “Even when he was busy, he was thinking of you. That’s what big brothers do… I guess.” He checked Luca’s face to be sure how it landed. The kid nodded in understanding and stopped the wringing of his hands. “I’ve never had that, you know. Someone looking out for me like that.” Jean cleared his throat. “I know I’m not your brother but I like to think of you as mine, Luca.”

Luca said nothing, still nodding, just like old times, and relaxed his shoulders under Jean’s quick squeeze. “Are we going to sort things now?” His feet hit the ground, and he made his way to the wardrobe with a sense of quiet impatience that seemed to run in the Bodt family.

Thinking of how much Luca took after his brother made Jean smile. Even if Marco wasn’t here anymore, he could see there was still a part of him that had rubbed off on Luca, and if that kind, sweet and bright nature of Marco’s stayed there and grew, maybe that was enough. Jean couldn’t wipe the grin from his face at the thought. “Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

The two of them began to organise Marco’s things into the series of cardboard boxes. Luca’s bold, loud handwriting in dark blue ink was on each of them. It had never occurred to Jean how much stuff people left behind when they were gone. What faced Jean in this room was only part of Marco’s belongings, with the rest of it holed up in the academy, waiting to be shipped back.

Shoes were packed into them first. There was a pair of hiking boots, a pair of dress shoes, and a worn set of sneakers. Marco had never been one for excess. Everything he had was all about function and practicality, and nothing he didn’t need. The rest of Marco’s clothes followed, each folded gently by Jean who could smell just the faintest trace of Marco in the fabric. He was thankful Luca was here with him or he might have stood here smelling the clothes like a sentimental fool. Instead he snuck in small caresses of the fabrics, rubbing his thumb over seams and fiddling with buttons.

Little was said as they found and folded the entirety of Marco’s wardrobe. Small smiles passed between them, some lighting their eyes and others holding themselves together. Jean wasn’t sure how to start a conversation with a 12 year old. If he were to ask about school, Jean worried he wouldn’t know how to carry on, forcing himself to sound interested when his mind was elsewhere. He feared he would only be reminded of afternoons completing homework with Marco when they were Luca’s age. Silence and smiles seemed safer.

Reaching into the back of the closet, Jean’s fingers clasped around a small wooden box by the rear wall. It scraped across the carpet at his tug, puffing up a cloud of dust and disturbing a moth taking shelter in the shadows. It brushed by his face quicker than he could process it passing by him and he instinctively shuddered, swatting it away as he withdrew with the box in his hand.

He called for Luca and signaled for him to join him, resting upon the edge of the bed and drawing the box up into his lap. “What is this?”

“Marco’s keepsake box,” Luca said without hesitation. There was no hint of curiosity or suspicion in his voice. It just was. “He never let me look in it.” His shoulder shrugged upward with a small pout joining them in unison.

“What should I do with it?” Jean thought aloud. The idea of prying into Marco’s personal things sat uncomfortably with him. Whatever was in the box was not meant for Luca’s eyes, but that didn’t make it any more suitable for Jean’s. He tucked the box aside to deal with later.

A little voice answered him, chirping in between cardboard boxes behind him, “Take it with you. Marco would want to you have it.”

His eyebrows rose in mild surprise. His tone rose and rang of uncertainty. “You think so?”

Luca hummed in affirmation. “Mmhmm. Yeah.”

A buzzing tickled his thigh. The familiar ring of his phone called out to him from his pocket. Jean cleared his throat, passing a glance at Luca to meet a sudden nod. The phone felt warm against his ear. “Hello?”

“Oh good.” Hanji’s voice cheered in his ear, earning a cringe on Jean’s face and a reshuffling of the phone in his hand. “You free to talk?”

Checking behind him, Jean stood and left the room, starting a slow wander down the hallway. The kitchen by the back door glowed in the sunlight coming through the rear windows. Everything in sight was coated in a warm brown, orange flowers dotting the cream tiles, spots and stains marking the benchtop. The house hadn’t changed since the 70s, and as tacky as it looked, it felt cosy and familiar. Jean found himself a comfortable position leaning on the linoleum surface, ready to hear more of Hanji’s never-ending enthusiasm. “I am. Yes.”

Hanji took a deep breath near the phone. Her voice hummed in the way she always did when she wasn’t sure how to word what she needed to say. In the background, several voices rose and faded around her: Erwin’s firm commands, Connie’s confused and worried commentary of ongoing events, and even Levi’s gruff sense of humour, asking others what they planned to do with the mess around them. Jean grew confused, eyebrows twitching and furrowing.

Hanji’s laugh was awkward, hesitant even, immediately clueing Jean into something not being quite right. “We’ve been hit again.”

His free hand hit the benchtop with a slap. Jean leaned on his elbow, phone pressed to his ear. “What do you mean hit? What’s Levi going on about?”

Hanji called something incoherent back to Levi and mumbled something Jean couldn’t make out before she turned back to the phone. “There’s glass everywhere.” Her tone sank, laughter gone now as the topic became more serious. “Another burglary. They made off with a handful of my unique designs. Mostly gold and diamonds like last time.”

“What?! Seriously?” Jean screamed to the ugly echo from the sink tiles. “When did this happen?”

There was a huff in the phone’s microphone and the voice of someone, possibly Sasha sounding concerned behind Hanji. “We think it was last night.”

Jean ran his hand through his hair. A burglary meant police, questions for days, the stubborn marks of fingerprint dusting, glass in the carpet for weeks, and a sudden drop in the store’s revenue, because who wanted to be a patron of a store that was in pieces and trying to hold itself together. “We were all out,” Jean groaned. “Oh god, even Bertholdt and Reiner were…” He huffed into the microphone and quickly apologised. He clicked his tongue, closing his eyes, and clenched his teeth as he asked, “Did they have anyone on security last night?”

“I believe so.” Hanji didn’t sound sure. He wouldn’t put it past the centre to fail to schedule properly. “What’s done is done.” He cringed at the way she seemed to dismiss the situation, but reminded himself that Hanji was always thinking, always questioning, taking everything a lot more seriously than her demeanor let on. “So, this means we’re not really going to need you tomorrow.”

Jean cleared his throat and sighed. “Oh.” On the plus side, he could avoid the stress of the cleanup. No one needed someone to fix watches when the entire store was what needed work. It’s not like he needed the work right now. He peered over his shoulder. No sign of Luca. “I guess I have a lot more free time than I thought now.”

The cackle that followed made him cringe. “Be sure to enjoy it,” she mused playfully. Hanji always had a way of laughing at things no one else found funny. What went on in their head was a complete mystery. Before Jean had more time to ponder it, the call ended in silence. It took a few moments before Jean realised Hanji had hung up on him.

Chuckling to himself, he pushed himself up straight. He placed his phone down by his hand resting on the benchtop and let the news he had just heard wash over him. There was always something. One thing after another seemed to roll and bundle together in a tangled mess with him in the middle. A pang of guilt tugged at the muscles of his back. It all seemed to come back to him and a miniscule part of him had to wonder if he was to blame, if it followed along with him, if he was a magnet for these kinds of things. Perhaps only time would tell.

“Jean,” a voice called to him and shook him by the ears, drawing his attention to a surprised Rosa -- garbed in a gardening apron and gloves, dirt smeared up her arms and across her neck. She still held the same grace he had always known of her. Her hands tucked into her pockets, forgetting the open glass door and staring at him with quiet shock.

With her curls pulled back tight into a ponytail and her jaw clenched tight, she appeared somewhat thinner than he remembered but no less recognisable. It felt like years since he had seen her in person. This wasn’t how he had imagined them meeting again.

Jean pressed his lips together and nodded. Releasing his lips in an exhale, he responded in kind. “Rosa.” A hot flush spread through his skin, but rather than the giddy feeling of embarrassment, it felt like a clingy, unpleasantly warm sensation of shame. He couldn’t meet her eyes and stared at his fingers clawing on the benchtop. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to--”

“Jean,” she dismissed him softly and stepped up towards the benchtop. “I…” Silence fell between them and after a long deep breath, Jean saw the grief, and the hurt, and the compassion in her eyes. The last was not something he had expected after he failed to show up to the funeral. Instead he was met with a sympathetic smile. More silence and smiles. It seemed to run in the family. “I forgive you.”

Her fingers dug into her pockets. She fiddled with her belt as if she was waiting for something, hoping for the first words to not be hers. Jean obliged, spitting out a series of confessions. “I feel horrible. I really do. I wasn’t there for you, for Luca, for Marco. Any of you.”

“I’m not heartless, Jean.” Just like him, she avoided eye contact, skimming over the features of his face to determine his reaction and let him see hers without being confronted by what she might see in his eyes. “I was more worried I’d lost you --...” Her voice quavered and trailed away, trying to mask the word she couldn’t bring herself to say: ‘too’.

With a deep breath, he met her gaze, a deer in headlights. He wasn’t sure how to look away and from the perplexed mixture of her features; he was sure she didn’t either. He nodded, just a hint of his agreement, and let himself breathe again. “I didn’t mean to skip out…” He began and let the words sweep out of him like an exhale. He stopped when he found himself wondering how he could explain how he watched from a distance, and how his own private visit had turned into its own… disaster.

“Do you ever forget?” Rosa asked with a strange smile on her face. The thin taut line of her lips kept moving, tugging into a smile, forced, broken and misshapen with worried lines framing it.

A confused hum answered her before Jean understood what she meant. He shifted his weight onto his other foot. Here in the kitchen -- faced with Rosa and all of the things he missed, and forgot, and failed to do presented before him by her presence -- he felt trapped. Gulping didn’t help the sense that the worst was coming, that she might turn on him like he deserved for not attending the funeral of her son.

There was a solemn smile on her face when the light touched it, her body turning to face him, hands clasped before her as if in prayer. Rosa had a way of holding her hands still when she held herself back. Perhaps it was the way she talked with her hands that made her restrict them, trying to hide how she really felt and preventing her body from betraying her.

“Sometimes I expect him in the kitchen…” Something caught her attention. The buzzing of the refrigerator tapped at the back of his neck and sent an awkward hunch into his shoulders. Rosa remained unchanged until one hand started rubbing her arm. “I’ll walk in here and expect he’ll be standing where you are…” Jean moved instinctively away from the bench as if it was suddenly tainted by her words. “And he’ll just be rolling dough.” Rosa paused to smile at the memory. Her staring continued, her voice flat and cautious. “I think I hear something but there’s nothing there. It feels warm or cold all of a sudden and I think to myself that it could be him.” Rosa laughed: not happily, not self-consciously but in the small derisive way she did when a thought occurred to her. “It’s like I expect a ghost.”

Jean gulped and considered all of the things he could say. Perhaps he could tell her he expected Marco to send him another message, that the unread messages that he kept from a year ago tricked him constantly into thinking they were new. Then there was the glaring thought of mentioning that he thought he had seen Marco, created from a swirl of white specks that glowed like supernatural glitter, that he had chased him across the cemetery after rising up out of the non-existent fog.

Perhaps how he had sat on that park bench until the break of dawn, talking and catching up, and pretending things weren’t awkward; how Marco’s arm and part of his face and torso had disappeared, curling up and revealing a grotesque absence where Jean could see through him. Then as the night had ended, Marco was gone as if he had never been there. Jean still wasn’t sure if he had been in the first place.

These were not thoughts he planned on sharing with a grieving mother.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Jean choked after a sharp breath. He knew all too well. “It’s like he’s not quite gone, yet.” His mind wandered to the thought of Marco’s forced laugh and his words: ‘We both get to see each other’. Maybe another trip wouldn’t be such a bad idea. At night. Just to be sure.

Rosa nodded. Her face took on a softer look, chin tilted up, lips in a gentle smile, eyes looking behind Jean with mild apprehensive surprise. “Luca?”

Turning his head over his shoulder, he found Luca standing quietly beside him. The kid, even now, had a way of sneaking up on someone when he didn’t wish to be heard. Luca focussed on Jean’s shirt and lifted the wooden box in his hands as an offering to Jean. He smiled without a hint of concern and nodded shortly and quickly as encouragement. With a mumble of thanks and a tilted head, Jean accepted Marco’s box.

“Mama, are you coming inside now?” With quiet steps, Luca disappeared off to his mother’s side and slipped his arms around her middle. She ran her fingers through the thickest of his curls and hummed to him softly in Italian. Jean took it as his sign to leave. He wished them a curt goodbye and tucked the wooden box under his arm as he left.

Jean spent the afternoon flipping through his old photos and keepsakes from childhood, eyes intermittently tracing over the carvings in Marco’s wooden box that sat by his feet and wondering what Marco thought was sacred. His own collection consisted of so many things rich with memories, somehow still intact, hiding in the back of his own wardrobe in an old shoebox.

There were popsicle creatures made one Easter when Marco stayed over. Marco had made a pink easter bunny after an argument over whether it laid eggs, while Jean had made an easter chicken after he was convinced the bunny couldn’t be working on his own. Embarrassed by their creations, he had buried them in the shoebox his new shoes had come in. It had been their first Easter together.

Photos of them arm in arm were tucked beside photos of them on camping trips and April Fool’s day pranks. There were older photos from cheap disposable cameras where they had lost their teeth and grazed their knees, and new ones of their awkward teenage smiles and arms around each other.

Paper littered the box, covered in drawings in crayon and felt tip pens. While Jean drew patterns, puzzle pieces, and ponies, Marco drew butterflies, flowers, and fields. He had always had an affinity for nature that Jean didn’t. Jean focussed on the things in the world that fit together, how they worked, and how they ticked. People never fell into a pattern, but the things they made did. Marco, however, saw the beauty in the world: the colour, the breath of life. He wondered at the way things were, how the sky would change, how the rain would fall, and how even moths looked beautiful when they flew. It was obvious who drew what as he flicked through each one of them and stored everything back into his box.

Filled with nostalgia, he took the familiar scenic route to the cemetery in the late afternoon, determined to be sure and terrified to confront his mind or Marco’s spirit, whatever the truth. Marco’s wooden box tucked under his arm, he made two stops on the way. The flower shop he visited felt oddly familiar, but he stayed only long enough to pick up a bouquet of white jonquils and smile at the florist. His stop at the liquor store was quicker, where he flashed ID, paid the awkward blond guy behind the counter, and tucked two bottles of pear cider into his jacket pockets. While Jean walked slow and steady the rest of the way, they made less sound than the brush of the wind past his ear.

Darkness fell on his brow as he settled on the ground, cross-legged before Marco’s grave. One cider in his hand, the other beside Marco’s grave, he placed his bouquet beside the old one. He twisted the cap off his bottle and took a swig. It tasted sweet with a hint of sour. It wasn’t so much to his taste, but it wasn’t bad. It had been Marco’s favourite. It only seemed right to share a drink with him… in spirit.

The far glow of the orange streetlights hit the corner of Jean’s eyes as he sat there, waiting for something other than the wind brushing past his cheek. With sip after sip under the moonlight, nothing came. The rustling of leaves and crickets chirping in the distance were the only sounds to reach his ears.

It was a long, deep breath and a sigh before Jean picked up Marco’s wooden box and opened it. “Luca said it was yours, and you wouldn’t let him look inside.” He cleared his throat and waited for an answer. There was none. He continued, “So, I thought I should bring it here and leave it with you. Maybe even put, uh…” Jean leaned forward and took hold of Chris’ crown and Annie’s chain, lifting them up and gathering them into his hand. “These in it for… safekeeping?”

Talking to Marco’s headstone was more uncomfortable than Jean had imagined. Another sip of pear cider helped his nerves a little, though more for the alcohol than the taste. He wasn’t sure how Marco could have liked something so sweet. He rubbed over the condensation on the label, the pear tree in the centre shining under his thumb. It made him feel just that little bit closer.

The box opened with a bit of resistance and released the smell of some kind of herb or incense that Jean couldn’t name. Marco had always been better at that kind of thing. He’d know what was in there just by smelling. Sure enough inside there was a sprig of a plant, dried and shriveled and barely staying in one piece. He plucked it out of the box and placed it at the foot of Marco’s headstone.

Like Jean’s box at home, Marco’s held a collection of memories. There was one photo of Jean and Marco at the beach with badly applied sunscreen and sand all through their hair.

Another photo featured Marco giving Luca a piggyback ride. Jean could remember it clearly, the sound of Luca’s squeals as Marco laughed and Jean struggled to get a good photo of either of them as they kept moving. Despite all the exertion, Marco had been just as fresh and alive as when he started running, while Jean was sprawled out on the Trost park grass exhausted.

Jean drew photo after photo from the box and placed them out in front of him on the grass. With each one he became more and more self-conscious, and his head snapped up to Marco’s name before him to speak aloud his concern. “I hope this is okay. Me looking through these.” Licking his lips, he kept unloading the box. He kept hoping, looking, waiting.

The last photo was bent and smudged in the bottom corners. Jean immediately recognised the man in the photo and understood why Marco had never let Luca touch it. The man who stood in the photo had the same bright, nose-wrinkling smile that Marco had but with hair that was light brown, short and straight. Marco’s father, Arthur. Jean could see where Marco got his height and his broad shoulders. He was dressed in the very same Trost police uniform that Marco had showed him the last time Jean had seen him in person. At least, the last time he was sure of.

Memories in solid form rattled in the bottom of the box: a pressed dandelion, a silver button, shells from countless times at the beach, ripped ticket stubs, and Jean’s old broken watch. Jean dropped the chain and the hair clip into to the mix. Looking up and around him, glancing up briefly at the moon, Jean placed each of the photos back into the box to the sound of silence.

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” he said with a hint of regret. His fingers pulled at the grass by Marco’s headstone, worming their way into the soft, damp earth. He clawed roughly until he moved enough dirt to wiggle the wooden box into the ground. It sat snugly in the hole, all of its contents secured by the fit of the lid, and Jean covered it again with a quick shove of the dirt and a firm tap. “It’s yours. You should have it and everything in it.”

Jean stood, pushing himself up on his knees, and dusted the dirt from his hands, digging the rest out from under his fingernails. There was a sense of finality when he took in everything before him and he brushed the rest of his hopes off his jeans too. Hope could sit at the back of his mind with the rest of his worries.

When Jean found himself in front of Smith and Zoe, the usual bright shine of windows was replaced by the pale colour of pine wood. A large section of the windows were boarded up, held together by nuts and bolts, and the front doors were ajar but not open. A bright red sign reading CLOSED was stuck to the back of the glass of the right front door. Jean huffed as he entered. It seemed pretty clear without the sign.

Inside, the floor was peppered with glass. Clear patches of carpet showed the oft-walked paths and where the cleanup had begun. Jean walked through with tentative steps. Each one was punctuated by the crunch of glass beneath his shoes. No wonder Hanji had told him not to come in yesterday if it still looked like this today.

“Don’t spread it further,” a gruff voice called from behind him. Jean’s shoulders tensed and with a clenched jaw, he faced the source. Levi Ackerman stood by the far wall with a dustpan and brush in hand. “It’s bad enough we could only clean it properly _now_.”

It was strange to see the man dressed in a dark brown vest over a crisp business shirt, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, with cleaning implements in his hands. Even in the cleanest of outfits, he still looked like he had been here all night on his hands and knees scrubbing. Maybe that actually was the truth. Jean wouldn’t put it past him.

Jean furrowed his eyebrows. “Wait, you couldn’t clean it until today?” He noticed the cabinets in the centre had also received the same treatment as the windows. No gold and silver was left in these cabinets, simply the off-white of the cushions and trays they lay upon. Half the store, Jean realised, had been ransacked.

“Preserving the crime scene.” Levi’s facial expression didn’t change, but there was a twitch in his jaw, a sign of disapproval. The same dark and steady stare met Jean’s. “They needed things preserved to look over them.” He sighed and began brushing glass from the cabinets into his dustpan. “One of them is due back any minute.”

With a nod, Jean stepped further inside, head arching to peer into the back room. He could neither see nor hear anyone. “Is that why you’re here? Alone?” Levi worked as a diamond consultant, buyer, and trader. He was more of a contracted employee than a permanent one. His presence now struck Jean as strange. Levi never did more than he was required to do, though he’d never been able to keep himself from dusting the shelves while he waited for Hanji.

“Hanji and Erwin are arguing with security.” Jean thought for a second he caught the hint of a dismissive shrug in Levi’s shoulders. He walked with such a tense hold in his muscles but it never looked more than grace. “I’m here to do…” he gestured with a slight wave of his hands out at the mess before, lips pulled into a frown, “what needs to be done.”

Jean smirked and huffed through his nose, folding his arms and taking in the mess. “Even though it’s not your job?” He had always suspected there was more to Levi’s job than met the eye. While he was good at it, he spent more time at Smith and Zoe than he ever needed to. Jean had his suspicions as to why.

“Someone’s got to clean up after these fucking idiots that thought this was a great idea.” He ground his teeth. His tone turned more to frustration than anger. Somehow his voice, with the way he nonchalantly moved around, cleaning out the cabinets, made everything he said sound matter-of-fact.  “I could have done a cleaner job.” Jean barely caught him when he followed with a mumbled, “Amateurs.”

Curious, Jean challenged him, “You think so?” Jean uncrossed his arms and started a tour of the store. Glancing from ceiling to floor, he marveled at the extent to which the glass had flown from the windows. It seemed they had been in a rush. It was like last year all over again. They had never caught the culprits, and Jean wouldn’t be surprised if they were hit by the same people.

Levi continued on his cleaning path. Without even blinking, he retorted back, “Know so.” Such sincere confidence in his voice gave Jean no reason to doubt that it would be true.

Soft footsteps crunched into the room and a silvery laugh jolted them both to attention. “That’s only ‘cause you’ve done it before, and been caught.” Officer Dreyse stood to attention, arms folded behind her back, looking down her nose at the mess of glass at her feet.

Levi moved quicker, the sound of glass pieces hitting against each other growing louder as if in defiance. “I’m not in that line of work anymore.” He sounded more tired than Jean had heard him before.

Jean caressed the unbroken cabinets, appreciating them for remaining untouched in the disaster that had fallen around them. He remained silent and dared not interrupt.

The smirk growing on her face, Hitch wandered in with her thumbs in her belt. She hummed and strutted in the store with more attitude than Jean had seen last time. Perhaps it was being on the clock, perhaps it was the crime scene. “‘Gone straight’? Got an honest livin’ now? You sure?” Her voice held all the sour notes of sarcasm. It showed in the curl of her lips.

“What are you getting at?” Levi crossed his arms with a swell of impatience. “Cut to the point, _Officer_.” Sharp words and quick wit ran in the family, it seemed.

“Your buddies didn’t orchestrate this?” Hitch’s curls bobbed as she spun, pointing randomly around the store. She nodded towards the cameras in the corners. Jean followed her eyes, his mouth falling slack at their state. Each of them had been smashed and was now hanging by its cables. “You’ve technically cased the joint. Surely you could’ve helped them out.”

Levi didn’t give her any hint in his face that the words got to him. Jean searched for some kind of sign, but the accusation was merely answered with an honest, blunt, “That was years ago. It’s all in the past.”

“What were their names?” She scratched her ear. The more the nasally whine in her voice continued, the more Jean wanted her to stop. Frustrated to be here, she took some joy in poking Levi in places that were soft. “Magnolia… Church… Yes, that’s right. They had pretty names.”

Jean knew those were names to never mention around him, according to Hanji. Names were powerful things, infused with all the memories of the people who held them. Their sound could strike a chord in the people who heard them -- though it was not always something pleasant to the ears.

Levi lost his voice at that. His muscles tensed, his jaw clenched, and his hands tightened around the dustpan in his hand until the handle cracked. His features twitched as he considered his options. He dropped the broken dustpan to the ground and leaned against the case with one hand, eyes never leaving Hitch.

“Hitch, was it?” Jean asked, knowing exactly who she was and ensuring she could hear as much in his tone. He tried to hide the way his eyebrows betrayed his confusion with the sense of indignation he felt at the way she had just spoken to Levi.

She rolled her eyes and sighed at him. “Mmm, Johnny-boy?” Somehow she seemed less of a nuisance than he had ever found Annie, but he suspected the pressure placed on her was contributing to her unprofessional demeanor.

Closing his eyes, he brushed through his hair, fingers catching in the thickest of it for a second. “What are you here for?” He scratched through his undercut and opened his eyes again. His question was more accusation than genuine interest.

“Just checking in.” Hitch shrugged, the folds of her navy uniform bunching up, appearing so much more clean-cut than she actually was. Pursing her lips, she wondered aloud, “And I had a hunch.”

“Well, you’ve checked in,” Jean stated and clenched his teeth. “No more job for you to do here unless you want to help clean.”

She looked at him dismissively, like the prospect of even staying was just as boring as leaving. “I’m keeping my eye on you, Ackerman. It’s a slippery slope back to crime, you know? Especially when surrounded by temptation.” Her hand ran across the edge of what was left of the glass case. She gave it a quick tap and a laugh before she left out the front door with her hands crossed behind her back.

Levi cast a glance at Jean and mumbled shortly, “You didn’t need to do that.” He left without another word, muttering something about finding the ‘actual damn owners of this place’. It was a good a thank-you as Jean could expect, though he didn’t think it was anything special.

Hitch didn’t return after that. The work at Smith and Zoe consisted mostly of tidying and cleaning for the first few days. Pieces of glass could be found everywhere, even in the bottom of Jean’s shoes at the end of the day, embedded in the leather sole. Damaged trays were thrown away to make way for the new ones coming in the next delivery.

Erwin organised an impromptu stocktake and called everyone in to count whatever it was they had left. Levi surveyed each of the diamonds while Hanji checked off her own designs against her photobook. Armin double-checked it against his designs, accounting for maybe three quarters of their original work. Jean checked his records with his heart in his throat and to his relief found none of the watches had been stolen.

During the quiet hours after they opened their doors again, they tidied and rebuilt the store up from its shattered frame, creating new pieces, replacing old trays and shelves, making it what it once was. Customer flow was slow at first. People were cautious about the place boarded with wood and only half-filled with the jewellery it was meant to sell. Hanji and Armin worked overtime to create new works as Levi got hold of a new diamond dealer and Erwin argued with the insurance men about the proper payout amount.

Eren stopped by to take measurements for the new windows. A glazier by trade, he removed the boarding and smashed out the rest of the glass, much to Levi’s annoyance. He worked silently, propping up the new glass with only a few signed words to Armin who came to check on him. Eren visited regularly after that, encouraging Jean to join him and Armin for lunch every second day. Some days Mikasa joined them too. It kept him almost sane on those days when he had little to do.

As the month progressed, Jean would return to Marco’s grave after work or on his days off when the light disappeared from the sky. The moon shone amongst the clouds like it was smiling down upon him. He whispered words of worry and concern, things he’d wished he’d said, and all the things he hoped for. Every time a light shower met him and caressed his face with its brief downpour. No matter how little happened, he couldn’t bring himself to stop visiting and stop hoping.

On the darkest night of April, when the new moon took to the sky, Jean wandered in the night to Marco’s grave again, followed by the song of crickets. His hope was the hesitant flame of a solitary candle in the dark. Though small and vulnerable, flickering with the threat of disappearing, it was its brightest when alone.

He dropped to his knees before Marco’s grave, once again dampened by the light shower of the night, droplets of rain resting in his hair. His fingers traced Marco’s name once again as a shuddering breath took to his chest. “I keep coming back.” He sat upright, resting his hands on his thighs as if he might pray, and took a sip from the bottle of beer he had brought along with him. He was halfway through it already.

The crickets stopped singing and the wind rushed by with a bitter chill. Jean lifted his head up to the pitch black sky and the last of the shower kissed his face when he closed his eyes. When he opened them and stared straight ahead, the world felt the darkest it had ever been, both around him and within him.

As he sighed in defeat, the brightest of white wisps appeared about his knees. Jean shuffled back with a lump in his throat, giving room to the growing cloud of white specks that changed and swirled into a familiar form. It was quicker than last time, but no less frightening to watch a figure appear from nowhere, especially that of someone he knew.

Specks spun and twirled in the air, creating a glowing form with a head and limbs across from him. The legs formed first, white and bespeckled, and mirrored Jean’s kneeling position. Arms followed next, fingers curling and testing themselves as if discovering movement for the first time. The features of Marco’s face formed last of all. Jean sat transfixed by the way his nose wrinkled and his mouth twitched into a smile. When everything suddenly fell into place, a flush of colour started from his cheeks and ran across his uniform and skin.

Jean’s heart began racing, his breath becoming rushed and ragged. He thought he had been ready for this, but faced with Marco’s curious face again, he was suddenly confronted by nervous tingling in his stomach. “H-Hi.” His shaky hand brought the beer to his lips and he took another sip, keenly watching Marco’s apparition.

A chuckle and a tilt of Marco’s head caught Jean off-guard. “People are going to think you’re going mad.” His smile was shaky but his eyes were not, still the same old brown that Jean knew so well. Jean stared into them with a blank mind until the words sunk in.

Shaking his head, Jean closed his eyes and copied Marco’s smile. “What?” He was too busy letting the reality that he hadn’t imagined it sink into his mind. He had visited for day upon day and hoped and waited. Every new visit left less and less hope in his heart. Staring at Marco before him now, a new spark started where the old flame had burned and it seemed Marco was drawn to it.

“You keep coming,” Marco answered sheepishly, scratching and tugging at his ear. His eyes avoided Jean’s and stared at the jonquils by his side. His hands wrung each other and rubbed over his knuckles. It looked so ordinarily human.

Jean coughed and instinctively rubbed his neck when he found himself staring at the details of Marco’s hands. “Oh… yeah, right,” he answered between nervous chuckles, “But they’ve always thought I was mad about you.”

They shared the same laugh, leaning towards each other but not too close. Jean was still too cautious to reach out and see what happened if he tried to touch Marco. He had already seen the reverse.

“So.” Jean paused in awkward silence. “How are you?” His shoulders tensed upwards. He imagined anyone would have trouble knowing what to ask in his place. It had been a month, and Jean had no idea what he should say.

Marco’s hands stopped wringing and his whole body relaxed. He stared in disbelief with the slightest shake of his head. He had that look he reserved for questions Jean asked that struck him as ridiculous. “Are you seriously asking me that?”

A little more at ease seeing the old Marco that he knew, Jean pulled a face and poked out his tongue. “Yeah?” Childish habits between them never failed to make either of them smile.

Marco rolled his eyes and wiggled his shoulders, readjusting his position. “Much the same, I guess. I’ve been here.” His hands patted the ground to no sound. Not even the grass or the dirt moved as his fingers grazed past them.

Jean pretended he didn’t notice and leaned sideways onto one palm. “What’s up?”

“Nothing.” Marco took his turn to shrug. He gestured broadly around the cemetery to show the silence and the darkness that engulfed them both. “What about you?”

No words wanted to come to him now. He had imagined this moment a hundred times. They would stand or they would sit and Jean would recount his day. He would tell stories about the way Eren had fixed the store with glass or how Armin had created new designs. But it hit him, quite suddenly, that this would mean bringing up the burglary and centring their entire conversation around that. Jean kept his answers short. “Work’s been a mess. I’ve visited you a lot.”

“Yeah, you have,” said Marco in a quiet voice. Flickers of memories played in his eyes as he turned his head. Marco could never conceal the way his face changed when he was thinking. An uncomfortable feeling washed over Jean. It itched in his skin, on his skin, like a scratchy woolen blanket that wrapped around him too tightly. It felt wrong.

“When you said you were here… you meant…” Jean resisted the urge to grab Marco by the shoulders and drag him into a hug, afraid that he would find out what would happen if he tried. Instead he dug his fingers into the dirt and grabbed at grass, frustrated by the fact Marco couldn’t touch him, that there remained so much distance when they sat so close. “You’ve seen me each time, haven’t you?”

Marco leaned back and readjusted himself into a cross-legged position. His hands clasped around his feet. “Y-yeah.”

“Oh… so you know everything?” Feeling a warmth prickling in his cheeks, Jean peered up from his bowed head with his chin digging into his chest.

Marco laughed an empty, sad laugh. “It’s hard not to hear when you have nowhere to go.” Jean’s eyes snapped up at the tone of ‘nowhere’. His eyebrows pressed down and his lips pulled down at the weight of building worry. Marco’s own eyes widened in surprise, mouth gasping at air like breathless goldfish. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s not that bad.”

Pushing up onto his knees, Jean thrust his hands up, scattering dirt through the air. His voice was hoarse and much louder than he intended. “It doesn’t sound like it!”

Searching around him, feeling the ground with his hands, confirming it was still there, Jean peered around the grave. “I was here... and you were…” He had been here so many times by now. How could he have possibly missed the fact Marco had been here?

“Invisible," Marco finished his sentence. His hands patted across his torso, small ripples of white spreading through the flecks from the point of impact. Like a shockwave, it spread out in a flash of white and colour and was gone in the blink of an eye.

A pang of guilt hit Jean in the chest. Cold and empty, it stole the breath from his lungs. “Oh god.” Images of each of his visits replayed in his head. All the words he had said, the nervous fidgeting as he waited with the tears of frustration in his eyes. Marco had seen it all. The heavy weight of guilt on his chest turned into an growing tension in his stomach and heat in his face.

Marco shrugged apologetically. “It was less lonely when you came to visit.” The gloss over his eyes looked the most real and human that Jean had seen. For a moment Jean forgot his headstone lay just behind him, that he was in a cemetery, and that the man before him was a ghost. It all felt too real.

Jean’s fingers clenched into the dirt. The dampness anchored him to reality, his fingers clutching on with a weak grip and his mind weakening further scepticism. So long as he could feel this, it was real. “I thought I’d seen things.” His doubts replayed through his head, a grim reminder of the deep unsettled feeling and worries about the state of his mind.

“I know.” The sound of a huff left Marco’s lips but Jean felt no air on his face. The breathing and the sighs and the way his chest moved were all for show. Yet their presence made the absence of air filling Marco’s lungs all the more evident to Jean.

Pushing through the crowding of thoughts, he spoke one aloud. “I thought I’d dreamed it.” Soft and rolling over his thought, his words rushed out of him like both a whisper and a breath, a shiver passing through it like he was glad to speak it.

Marco responded in kind. “I know.” Neither of them could make eye contact, even glimpse at each other’s faces, for fear of seeing the expressions to match the tones they heard. Despite the melancholic overtone, beneath it there was a sense of relief they shared, being able to talk to each other once again.

Shoulders hunched and fingers nervously combing through his hair, Jean enquired with an air of confusion, “Why can I see you now?” His other hand reached forward, palm out, slow.

“Beats me.” Marco shrugged and stared at Jean’s hand with a tilted head. “I prefer it this way.” With both his hands he gestured at how close they sat, knee to knee but not touching, able to be face to face and talk uninterrupted. His hand moved forward to join Jean’s.

Jean’s fingers twitched, fighting the urge to meet Marco’s hand. “Why?” A frown creased his lips and his eyebrows pressed together as he searched Marco’s face for a better understanding.

“You look less pained,” he answered matter of factly, pressing his hand up to Jean’s until it almost touched. Specks wavered, flittering in patches of white, until he shifted his hand back just a little. “It’s nicer when I can talk back.”

Jean’s lips pressed together repeatedly, and he rolled them over his teeth and smiled up at Marco from a lowered head. He blurted out the words he had been wanting to say, letting them bubble forth from his mouth in a semblance of a mess. “I missed you.” His face and chest flushed with immediate sense of regret, a warm tingling from his neck down.

Never leaving his eyes, Marco relaxed the tense hold of his nerves on him with two simple words: “Me too.” Each of them stared at their hands and drew them back to their sides as if in agreement.

A chuckle escaped Jean’s lips like a sigh. He shook his head with a larger smile and rolled his eyes. “Well, here I was thinking you’d miss me.”

Marco stared at him blankly, the way he always had when he thought Jean said something ridiculous. “You know what I meant, you dork.” His serious reactions were always so blunt and ready to cut through Jean’s bullshit.

Together they laughed. The tension between them, within Jean, had eased, and somehow the world felt right again. Jean told Marco all the stories of what was going on at work, for the second time. He talked about how Luca had packed up his things, how his mother swore she could feel his presence, and how he had lunch with Armin and Eren almost every day without fail. Jean could have sworn Marco’s face cracked a little because of how big his smile was.

Time passed, the wind blew, and the sky grew light. The orange on the horizon stroked down Marco’s face, and Jean knew his time was nearly up. Determined to be prepared this time, Jean stretched out his legs, rubbing away the ache that had grown behind his kneecaps.

Worried Marco would disappear at any moment, a flurry of words left his mouth and he struggled to keep them straight and maintain composure. “Marco, I don’t know what this is or why you’re here, but if... this… keeps going, you’re going to watch me grow old.” All Jean could hope for was this: visiting, speaking, laughing, for as long as the universe would allow him. It seemed mad for him to hope for as much, but a large part of him didn’t care enough to worry.

A warm glow came into Marco’s eye and Jean couldn’t be sure if it was hope or the glimmer of sunset. “You’ll keep coming back?” As sure as Jean had always known Marco to be, there was a hint of doubt in his voice now, not wanting to ask but hoping all the same.

Jean scoffed, raising his chin and returning a solid stare. “Why wouldn’t I?”  
Marco looked away briefly and gestured, voice blunt and flat, trying to hide the hurt in it. “You’ll have a life. Something I can’t -- don’t -- have.”

“We don’t even know at this stage…” he began in answer, thinking aloud before he trailed off.

Searching in his eyes, Marco leaned forward, a twinge of a frown at the corner of his lips. “But is this okay?”

Jean’s eyelids fluttered as he let the words settle in his brain and found himself convinced that it was. “It is what it is.” He couldn’t leave Marco here alone in the darkness, without anyone else to speak to, not like this. As he forced a smile and dusted the dirt off his fingers, he peered up to the threat of the sun rising, golden and warm, cutting their time short. His head snapped back to Marco, hands up in reassurance, blurting in fear Marco might worry. “I should probably go... but I’ll come back. I swear.”

Marco’s warm chuckle at Jean’s jolting movements at his expense set Jean at ease. “It’s okay, Jean,” the smile on his face set a melody to his words, like it always did when he tried to reassure Jean. “I know you will.”

“No, really. I can’t not.” Jean said blankly, more to himself than to Marco. He pushed himself up onto his feet, grunting with the strain, and pulled a face for Marco’s benefit.

Marco laughed again, defeated and rising up to stand as well. “Okay then.” He took a deep false breath and sighed, letting a delicate smile grow on his face and a shine enter his eyes. “See you when you get here.”

Jean nodded and stepped back, eyes tracing up and down Marco, still in partial disbelief that his form looked so real. Unsure what else they could say before the sun rose, they locked eyes on each other and smiled. Soon enough Marco’s form began to fade. This time Jean waved and Marco mirrored him in return. His colour melted away to white and with a shimmer and a shudder, the specks separated and took to the air as moths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh this chapter was a really long one to write. With a lot of things going on in my personal life and wanting to get this chapter right, it took a lot longer than I expected. 
> 
> This is my favourite chapter so far and I hope you all love it as much as I do. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me.
> 
> \----
> 
> Italian translation:  
>  _Buongiorno_ \- Good morning  
>  _Giorno_ \- day  
>  _È buongiorno_ \- It's good morning  
>  _Che temperamento!_ \- (roughly) What an attitude!  
>  _Andiamo!_ \- Let's go!  
>  _Ciao bello_ \- Hi beautiful  
>  _Bello?_ \- Beautiful?  
>  _Si_ \- Yes  
>  _Tra un momento._ \- In a minute.  
>  _Tutto ok, Mama?_ \- Everything okay, Mama?  
>  tvtb - Short for _Ti voglio tanto bene_ \- I love you very much/I want you to be okay (affirmation of affection or deep caring, not necessarily romantic)
> 
> \---
> 
> If you liked this and want to share it, you can find the Tumblr post [here](http://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/post/130432206392/see-you-when-you-get-here-chapter-6-the-box).
> 
> I would love to hear your feedback here or you can also find me on [Tumblr](https://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](http://twitter.com/foxberryblue) or on my writing only blog [Foxberry Writes](http://foxberrywrites.tumblr.com/).


	7. The Younger Brother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ _Waiting by Marco’s grave stood Luca, hair curly as ever, glowing in the bright sunlight like it shone for him and him alone. Jean found it hard to believe that the solemn-faced child that greeted him now was that same boy that used to beam at the door when Jean visited._ ]

**\- Twelve years ago -**

Shimmering sunlight and soft winds caught in Marco’s hair as he laughed, tucking his chin down to his chest. He leaned back onto his small hands with his legs spread out before him, poised like he had just dropped down to the ground. His gentle brown eyes peered over to Jean beside him with mild curiosity and a pleasant smile. Both of them sat in the unkempt grass on the tall hill overseeing the town, enjoying the sense of freedom that settled in when the weekend came and they were finally free from school.

Jean crossed his legs, resting his hands in his lap and staring out before him, quickly avoiding Marco’s gaze. Something in it made the tips of his fingers tingle, wishing for something tactile to distract him from the butterflies sitting in his stomach. Instead he played with his lip and asked, “What do you want to do?”

Marco tilted his head and pulled a face. “Do?” His shoulders lifted and he breathed in deeply, closing his eyes like it helped him get the best of the afternoon air. “We could just sit here.”

“We sit all day at school,” Jean complained and rolled his eyes. He groaned at the thought of returning back to school on Monday. He muttered his mild distaste in surrender, “I guess this is fine.” When he was there, he couldn’t spend these moments with Marco, where they walked to their favourite spot, sat on the grass, and watched the world go by around them. While he complained, Jean was happy doing whatever made Marco happy, and Marco was happiest outdoors.

Marco leaned forward and plucked one dandelion seed head by his foot, another by his knee. “What would you wish for?” He passed a flower to Jean with polite insistence despite Jean’s hesitant glance and subtle shake of his head. Upon accepting it, the boy sat there staring at the flower in his hands, turning it over in his fingers, feeling the softness of it beneath each touch. His features twisted at the thought of what he could say and what he should say. Marco likely expected something.

He retorted quietly, not wishing to sound too abrupt, as Marco said he often did. “If I told you, it wouldn’t come true.” His wish, however, was something he was too embarrassed to say, to admit. Speaking about how he wished he could spend forever and a day with Marco seemed silly -- too much, even. His hands clasped together around the stem of the dandelion and he pushed down the thoughts and urges of grabbing Marco’s hands. Breathing deeply, he wished he could spend more time with Marco and blew the flower’s seeds into the air.

They flew off and twirled along with the breeze, disappearing beyond the hill as Jean watched them quietly. Turning back, he jolted when he realised Marco had been watching him. A small sound escaped him without his permission and he quickly looked away at Marco’s chuckle.

When Jean sheepishly looked up again, Marco was holding his own flower up and peering into the sky. A look of peace settled over his face, and he closed his eyes slowly before he took a deep breath of his own and blew his flower into the breeze. The sudden urge to ask Marco about his wish mingled with the hope it would relate to him, but Jean nudged the idea away to avoid disappointment.

“What is it you wished for?” Jean asked, trying to simultaneously avoid Marco’s gaze while still seeing where it fell. It was a lot harder to be sneaky about that kind of thing, Jean found, frustratingly. The anticipation of the answer curled itself up in knots in his stomach. He had to ask at the very least.

Marco arched a brow and narrowed his eyes with a smile upon his lips. “If I tell you, it won’t happen. Like you said.” He shuffled over and nudged Jean’s side with his elbow. With a grand gesture he pointed up at the sky. “Wishes have to travel unhindered.”

Jean groaned and threw his head back with an amused eyeroll. “That’s a lot of bull.” Tilting his head to the side, he challenged Marco with the raise of his eyebrows. He wasn’t sure what he expected but he tensed with the sense he’d be surprised all the same.

“I don’t think so.” Sighing happily, Marco turned his head towards Jean with that same serene look he got when he was comfortable, the one that made Jean’s hands sweat and want to move, that made his stomach flip and wobble.

Jean’s speech came out like laughter, ringing with the tone of disbelief and cynicism. “Do you really believe wishes come true?” Wishes, for Jean, were lofty things that people hoped for but never saw come to fruition. Somehow he was not surprised that Marco saw them differently from him.

Caught in each other's gaze and the sound of the soft breeze, Marco took a quick, fleeting look down at Jean’s pursed lips, and he leaned forward quickly to leave a nervous, dry kiss. He hurried back as the silence lingered around them and whispered a small “Yeah…”

A warm tingle spread through Jean’s neck and face, but he dared not move to draw attention to something Marco might not have noticed yet. Jean had always wondered what this would feel like, what a kiss would feel like. Somewhere inside he felt he had always wanted it to be this way, but he had thought he would have made the move first.

Unsure what he was meant to do next, Jean threw out his hand in offering. Marco quickly took his hand in his own little fingers and clasped them gently. Together they sat hand in hand with the wind whispering sweet nothings around them.

“Jean,” Marco said with a small squeeze of Jean’s hand to get his attention. “I’m going to be a big brother soon.” His eyes closed and his smile grew with a small chuckle. There was a sense of pride in the way he wrinkled his nose and showed off his teeth.

The wind brushed by them in Jean’s silence. His fingers fiddled with the hem of his shorts and he looked up to the sky with a thoughtful look on his face. “So that’s why she looks like a planet.”

Marco clicked his tongue and furrowed his brows. “Jean, that’s mean.” He let out the frustrated breath he always did when he suppressed a laugh at something rude Jean had said.

“But she does!” Jean swore, miming the growing bump in Mrs. Bodt’s belly. He had noticed the past few weeks, but didn’t know what was happening or how she managed to get a baby in there. He continued to mime the way she had started to walk. “She waddles and makes sounds though, so maybe she’s not…”

Shuffling his shoes, Marco sat up straight and crossed his legs under his knees. He reached over to pluck another dandelion -- yellow this time -- and fiddled with it in his hand, peering over it thoughtfully when he asked, “What do you even know about babies?”

With a huff, Jean answered, “I know a lot about babies.” He tilted his head, hoping Marco wouldn’t catch his bluff. He didn’t want to look stupid, but sadly there was very little that Jean truly knew about babies. It was not his area of expertise.

Using his signature smile, Marco poked Jean in the ribs and called him out on his claim, his voice sly and amused. “Like what?”

The dirt beneath his shoes gave way easily when he rubbed at it. The sound of the tapping punctuated every thought he had, trying to come up with something impressive that wouldn’t leave him looking odd or stupid in front of Marco. He never wanted that. Once again the hot flush crept across his face and he knew that he was done for.

Stubbornly he looked away and grunted, “They’re really ugly.” He peeked to see Marco’s face. There was no laughter at his expense, no amused smile, but simply raised eyebrows and a slight look of confusion. Jean felt he needed to add more. “And they cry… a lot.”

“But that’s how you know to look after them.” Marco scuttled closer without a care for how the dirt would muddy his clothes. Dirt still on his fingers, he scratched away at his nose and cheek, leaving brown marks across his face. Staring at the look on Marco’s face, Jean thought to himself how much it seemed to suit him above that bright smile.

“Or they just want attention,” he offered to Marco through tight lips. His eyes lingered on the dandelion in Marco’s hand. He clasped it so tightly that Jean was sure he would never let go of it. “This one’s going to get all of your attention too.”

Marco shook his head dismissively. “He’s going to be my new little brother, Jean.” He stated the facts with a sense of disbelief and confusion. Continuing to fiddle with the dandelion in his hand, his eyes carefully watched Jean.

“He’s going to replace me.” A surge of jealousy coursed through Jean as he spoke his mind.

Marco firmly rebutted him, “No. That won’t happen.” He pursed his lips this time, chin raised and more certain than Jean had ever seen him. He was one gesture away from having his hands on his hips. It brought a smile back to Jean’s face.

“H-how do you know?” The question hung in the air. With Marco’s new brother on the way, he wondered what use Marco would have for him now. He’d have another friend to play with, someone else that was more important. It would only be a matter of time.

“I do.” Marco reached over to punch Jean lightly on the shoulder. It hurt more than Jean was expecting but he refused to let himself flinch. Marco had always hit harder than he thought he did. Jean would never let him know.

Jean leaned against Marco’s shoulder, pushing against him with a grunt, pretending it didn’t really matter to him. “That’s good then.” Marco pushed back against him with a small laugh under his breath. He leaned further and further against Jean until his head rested on Jean’s shoulder, and they stayed there like that, frozen in place, watching the grass sway at their feet.

When Marco grew comfortable, he started talking aloud, announcing more news to Jean like he was prone to do. “Papa said we won’t be sleeping much.”

“Because it’ll cry,” Jean stated bluntly. He wasn’t fond of babies crying. They spent too long whining and screaming and they were just too loud. He hoped that this new brother of Marco’s wouldn’t be the annoying kind, but Jean always thought they were all the annoying kind.

“Because he’ll cry,” Marco corrected. Even when he corrected Jean, Jean didn’t mind. As blunt and straightforward as Marco was, he never meant to be mean and always caught whatever Jean said that was wrong. It set off butterflies in his stomach to think that Marco paid enough attention to correct him like that. He was all the more tempted to keep being wrong.

“Your dad is awesome though.” Jean wiggled his toes with a brief moment of glee. “He doesn’t sleep.” The thoughts of how proudly he stood in his uniform yet was still capable of having that warm look in his smile sat so comfortably in his head. His father had always made Jean feel welcome after his own had gone.

“Yes, he does.” Marco seemed to whine, his voice just that bit higher. Jean had said something silly, but he didn’t care when it got a rise out of Marco once again.

“You said he gets up really early and stays up really late.” He gestured around the air from one side of his body to the other. He figured the gestures would make sense. He had seen Marco’s family use them so often that he was bound to have picked up on some. The ones he used seemed to relate to talk about time. “You’ve never seen him sleeping or going in or out of your parents’ room.” 

“He’s a very busy man.” Jean could feel Marco pulling a face against his shoulder while he concentrated on the thoughts in his head. “He has things to do. Important things.”

“Like what?” Nuzzling against Marco’s hair and remarking how much it smelled like pine needles, Jean wondered exactly what those things were.

“You know… police things… I guess.” Marco gestured vaguely in the air as they had both often seen Mrs. Bodt do. Jean thought it seemed like the right thing to do when one wasn’t sure. “Papa doesn’t always say a whole lot.”

“He gets to carry a gun.” Jean shrugged and instantly froze when he felt Marco mumble and sigh at his shoulder. The movement had jostled him from his comfortable position, regret now sitting uncomfortably on his shoulders. He quickly leaned his head over to gently rest on Marco’s, hoping it would fix the situation. Instead he found himself blushing at how soft Marco’s hair was against his cheek. “That’s pretty cool,” he proclaimed loudly, trying to hide his embarrassment.

“Maybe.” Marco hadn’t seemed to have noticed how hot Jean’s face was and kept talking like all was fine. Jean relaxed his shoulders and hummed in answer as Marco continued. “Mama worries he won’t come home. She says he’s not safe.” 

While Jean couldn’t see it, he could hear the worried frown forming on Marco’s face. Jean had heard Mrs. Bodt say the same things too, often scolding Marco’s father for not calling more often.

It all seemed rather odd to Jean to be worried about Mr Bodt’s safety. Cops were trained to protect people and catch the bad guys. That’s what they were supposed to do. Jean believed that. “He’s a cop. Of course he’s safe.”

Marco was quiet for a few moments. His disagreement was already clear from the clenching of his jaw. He shook his head into Jean’s shoulder. “Not everyone likes people like my dad.” 

“Your dad is really cool.” The rebuttal sounded weaker than Jean had hoped. It streamed out of his mouth like a pathetic whine. He pretended it didn’t happen.

Seeming to have not heard it, Marco pulled himself away from Jean to sit up straight. His hands fold together in his lap and remained still while he continued. “Papa says that sometimes people want to hurt him,” he said, letting his voice grow quiet like speaking any louder would bring about bad luck. He shrugged defensively and fiddled with his fingers. “He just really wants to make sure he’s doing the right thing.”

Jean shrugged his shoulders in mimicry, already missing the weight of Marco’s head on them and feeling of home that came with it. “What’s the right thing?” He always thought he knew. It seemed easy to know what the right thing was, and that’s what his father’s job was. He didn’t understand why anyone would want to hurt someone doing the right thing.

 Marco rubbed his hands over his belly, inspecting it with another frown on his face. “When you can feel it in your gut, I guess.” When he found nothing down there, he looked back up at Jean and let the frown curve up into a small smile. It didn’t seem happy at all. “That’s what he tells me.”

There was a moment between them, quiet and comfortable, where Jean glanced between Marco’s eyes and his hands. He wondered how much of that smile was fake and decided he would try to make it bigger. “He’s working on something cool though, right? He said he had a case.”

Jean’s attempt was a success, if only just. The corner of Marco’s mouth curled up with what looked like pride. “Yeah, tracking down some thieves.”

“That’s so cool.” Jean reached over to punch Marco lightly in the shoulder, checking immediately after that he hadn't thrown it too hard. It was the best he could do. He wasn’t sure what else people did when they tried to cheer others up.

Marco laughed. To Jean’s ears, it was like a bird call in the morning when one rolled about in bed and was woken by the morning light. Even Marco’s voice made him happy somewhere deep inside when he answered, “Yeah. He doesn’t like me talking about stuff like that though.”

Jean leaned over and nudged Marco’s arm lightly, trying to play it up and draw out more laughter. “Oh… but it’s just us. You can tell me.” He presented the hill around them. Deep green grass swept across and down the hill. The sun caught each blade with just a sliver of light. It was the only company they had but for their shadows, kissing in the grey on the ground behind them.

The blue sky shone in the white of Marco’s eyes as he stared up above, just in case. Satisfied, he pulled a small frown. “Well… okay.” He shuffled closer, hand over hand, his butt dragging across the grass, snapping a twig with his feet.

Jean leaned closer to cover the gap and Marco leaned back in turn. They were so close, Jean realised, that Marco might just kiss him again, and he wouldn’t mind that at all. Instead, they glanced over each other’s noses, Jean’s slightly pink with embarrassment and Marco’s brushed with freckled brown. They could have touched if Jean moved just a little bit more. His hands grasped onto the grass and watched Marco’s lips part uncertainly.

“Well…” Marco looked down, eye twitching nervously. “You should come closer…?” He tensed his shoulder, peeking up shyly. “I should probably whisper it.” Once again he checked around them, apparently concerned about what he was about to say.

Tilting his head, Jean obeyed and leaned in even further. Warm breath passed over his neck. He giggled, closing his eyes tight. “That tickles,” he complained and wiggled his shoulders, bumping Marco in the process. “Hurry up and tell me!”

Marco cleared his throat, in the short burst he was prone to do whenever he thought he was saying something important. “They’re a gang of thieves and they steal diamonds and gold.”

Jean sat back quickly, much to Marco’s surprise, and grinned widely. “Oooooh cool.” His hands slapped down to his thighs and he laughed at the way Marco rubbed his eyebrows, staring at him concerned and taken aback. “Don’t you think that’s cool?”

Scratching his right arm, Marco pulled a face, thinking in such an obvious way that Jean struggled not to chuckle again. “I guess so.” The moment of concern in his mind evidently passed when his shoulders relaxed again. “The thieves have got this really short guy...” The confidence in his voice grew the longer that he talked.

Jean could see how happy it made Marco that Jean was listening so intently. He nodded his head encouragingly, interested in what he had to say. Sometimes he just needed that extra push, especially when it came to talking about his dad’s work. “Yeah?”

Hope caught a glint in Marco’s eyes and tugged a smile up with the lift in his spirits. “They caught him too!” His hands retreated to his hips out of habit, but slumped away when he realised he was still sitting. “Papa caught him!”

Genuinely impressed, Jean’s jaw dropped. He shuffled into a more comfortable position like it might help him hear the story better. “How’d they do it?” He’d always been so fascinated with the stories Marco would tell him about his dad. Work never seemed to come up when he visited on school afternoons to study and complete their homework together. Yet Marco always seemed to sate his curiosity when they had moments like this. He sometimes wondered if he was the only one who got excited.

“It was pretty hard,” Marco began, looking out over the hill again and chuckling when Jean lay down on the grass to face the sky. He cleared his throat again to free the laughter from his voice. “Papa said the man was really good with a knife. They were really lucky no one got hurt.”

Jean closed his eyes to listen to the story. All he could hear was the breeze, the sound of Marco’s voice, and the filling of his lungs. It was peaceful, free. All the better for afternoons such as these.

“You’re not even listening, Jean,” Marco interrupted the moment with a stern complaint. He sounded a little hurt. His voice shook a little, huffing between disapproving hums in Jean’s direction.

It brought a smile to Jean’s face, still keeping his eyes closed. “I am too listening.” He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head to show off his ear. The grass felt cold when it grazed across his cheek, still warm from the knowledge that Marco was watching him.

Marco groaned, then grunted, unhappily, “Your eyes are closed.” Jean half-expected him to click his tongue like his mother was prone to do when she was displeased. He did no such thing. Rather he waited, taking louder breaths, something Jean had seen his father do. Jean wondered what it must be like to have a father like that, or a father at all.

With a growing wetness in his eyes, he didn’t dare open them now and let Marco see him crying. He wasn’t crying, just… tired, tired of remembering a blur of face he couldn’t make any clearer. Maybe he was never meant to. He shunted the sudden surge of feelings in his chest away. His tone turned to something playful. “I don’t listen with my eyes.”

“Still.” Jean could hear Marco crossing his arms in a huff. Smirking to himself, Jean made no attempt to move. Even when he felt the tip of Marco’s shoe nudging at his legs. It didn’t take long for Marco to stop and grow silent.

Jean’s smile was softer this time. “I can picture it all in my mind this way.” His hand reached up to press at the centre of his forehead. He probably looked silly, but with his eyes closed like this he didn’t seem to mind. It was only Marco after all. He could look however he wanted to in front of Marco.

Jean’s eyes snapped open and found Marco had crept closer to his side to watch with curiosity. He staggered back, surprised, when he finally noticed Jean looking back into his eyes. Looking thoughtfully down at his shoes, wiggling and tapping them together, Jean admitted, “I like it when you tell stories.”

Marco’s face held itself together for only a moment before he rolled his eyes and his head dove down to rest on Jean’s belly. “No!” Jean cried, reaching out to protect himself and unsure of where to put his arms. Marco’s cheek hit the soft part of Jean’s abdomen far gentler than Jean expected. It wasn’t as bad as Jean had thought. His hands retreated to fold on top of his chest. He could like this. It felt warm and comfortable with just the two of them lying there.

Jean gulped and tried his best to control his breath, now that Marco was so close and touching and could hear everything probably. He wondered whether Marco could hear all of his insides and know that Jean’s heart was beating that fast. Maybe, he pondered, Marco’s was beating just as fast.

Marco took in a sharp deep breath. His puffed up cheeks turned to blow raspberries on Jean’s skin, prompting squeals and shrieks from Jean’s lips. “No fair,” screamed Jean as he tried to tap Marco and push him away without hurting him. Marco finally relented when he needed a breath and laughed heartily with the new air in his lungs.

His laughter soon died at the sound of a low booming voice from behind them. “You boys haven’t gotten yourselves into too much trouble have you?” The man approaching them was dressed from head to toe in a dark blue uniform, his hands pushing up his sleeves. His broad shoulders and solid build were softened by the way his short dark hair lay across his forehead and his smile became more gentle as it grew. Nevertheless, he walked so confidently and calmly, making Jean want to be part of the police force too one day.

Marco pushed himself up and jumped to his feet. “Papa!” His face beamed at the sight of his father. A quick glance to Jean still on the ground was the only thing that seemed to stop him from running over before his father reached him.

“Hey Champ.” His hand ruffled through Marco's hair, bringing an amused wrinkling to the nose of his son. “You all set to come home? Your mother’s sent me out to find you both.” He smiled down at Marco who simply nodded back up at him.

Jean stood up very straight then. He fussed with his hair, tucked his shirt in, all hoping Marco’s dad hadn’t noticed how much of a mess he’d been. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to be around fathers. Since his own had left, part of him concluded he mustn't have been someone to be proud of. He hoped he could at least do his best to make Marco look good. He never wanted Mr Bodt to leave his family too.  
  
Before Jean could think of a cool way to say hello, Marco’s father greeted him. “Hello Jean.” His strong arm drew Marco to his side, shaking Marco's shoulder absentmindedly. “Marco’s dragged you all the way out here, has he?” For a second Marco’s father’s smile settled on him and Jean hoped that he had earned that smile..

“Papa!” Marco screamed indignantly, prompting deep chuckles from his father.

Mr. Bodt sighed and tilted his head, considering Jean. “I’m going to have to take you home to your mother.”

It wasn't what Jean had hoped to hear. He would rather have gone back to Marco's house and eaten the Bodt family dinner and spent the night if Maman would let him. As much as he wanted to complain about going home, he simply nodded and tried to hide his frown.

Marco's father hummed aloud. “Or…” He glanced down at Marco then over to Jean with a loud breath. “I guess we could have an extra bed…”

Marco’s eyes lit up, teeth showing in his large grin. “Really?” Jean wasn't sure if it would look silly to smile now, but he let some of it peek through the tight pressing of his lips.

“You two are already joined at the hip.” Marco's father's hand gestured for Jean to approach him, his spare hand squeezing Marco’s shoulder. “Who am I to stop you kiddos, huh?”

When Jean reached his side, he found the other hand waiting for him. It quickly found his shoulder, squeezing it too. Jean felt like he was beaming inside, as much as he tried to hide his smile. It broke out soon enough when his eyes caught Marco’s and the walls he put up started tumbling down again like so much sand.

 

* * *

 

**\- Present Day -**

Jean found the month passed quicker than he expected. With work picking up, his visits to Marco became fewer and fewer. Those dark nights alone, hoping, waiting, gave way to crosses on a calendar page, counting away the days until Marco might appear again.

Jean was certain there would be a pattern to it if he could just find it. It wasn’t based on the day of the week, or what he was wearing, or the time he visited. He had tried all of that and come home defeated every time. He convinced himself that if he tried different days or different times he could work it out. Surely there had to be some kind of sense to be made of all of it. Jean’s calendar became covered with red x’s of every day he tried and the only two upon which he succeeded: March 30th and April 29th.

It pained him to not visit and possibly miss a chance to see Marco again. There was no telling what he would find. Yet with the month’s gap in his calendar, he circled the end of May with hope. May 28th would be the next night of the new moon. Something in the darkness of each night that he had seen Marco told him that that would be the day.

The more time that passed between visits, the more irritated he became. Eren taught him some basic signs as a means of distracting him. Armin’s idea, most likely. It never quite took away the constant running thought in his mind that he might finally get this right. Last time had been a fluke, nothing more than luck, but his confidence wavered every new cross he drew as the day approached.

Days passed between morning coffees and evening stargazing, held together by light conversations and long lunches. Every day felt like it fell into a new empty space, clicking into place like a new part of the puzzle but never revealing the full picture.

Eren helped to make things clearer. For all his faults, he had a way of understanding the way Jean gestured through his thoughts, and for brief moments over a jug of dark ale he considered telling him all about Marco. Jean could talk to his heart’s content without Eren truly catching on, and then it would be said and somewhere outside of his own mind. But that, Jean decided, was wishful thinking. Anyone would be able to tell how he was if he started talking about Marco. He had at least that little amount of self-awareness.

While work brought a new onslaught of custom designs, Armin had taken it upon himself to fix Marco’s ring on the side. He worked on bringing it back to the original sheen and detail it had when he had finished the design years ago. Leaning over his desk with his visor strapped around his forehead, he clicked his tongue and commented on peculiar marks he would find on the band. There was always something new he would point out; such was his way.

Jean shrugged it off. Having this piece of Marco, even if it was something Jean had given him, was worth more than the damage that had come of it. Marco had kept it with him up until the very end, and if Marco had felt it was that important, Jean was determined to keep it. He asked one more thing of Armin before his work was finished: to resize it to fit his own hand. Though at first Jean couldn’t decide which hand to wear it on, he finally settled on the left.

With crosses covering the rest of May, Jean stared at his calendar and traced his finger across the page in lines of doubt. The day had come, and Jean wasn’t sure if he was ready. 

He spent the morning packing. In the back of his mother’s cupboard, he found his father’s old suitcase and dragged it out to lay open on the bed. It was an old, worn case of leather with gold plated metal caps on each corner and a handle that clicked and clattered when it moved. Somehow it had stood the test of time amongst forgotten trinkets and unused clothes.

A collection of containers filled the suitcase halfway, each one carefully packed to last the journey. Though it was a short walk and they were unlikely be jostled too much on the way, Jean wanted everything to be perfect, in one piece, like he hoped everything would be again. Hopes were not so easily packaged and stored for carriage.

The suitcase’s contents tapped together in an awkward rhythm when Jean prepared to leave the house. He hugged his mother with a small smile and looked to the ground to avoid her eyes. Between them, they had an understanding, and without speaking knew it was one of those days. 

She cupped his cheek, her hand strong and warm like it had always been. “Do you have everything you need?” Jean’s eyes followed along her arm. He suspected that she knew what he was doing. It was hard not to notice how he left the house at odd times. She’d been exceptionally understanding about his refusal to tell her what he was doing or where he was going, so long as he promised to come home.

He opened to his lips to speak but let nothing pass them. His attention drew down to the suitcase in his hand. For all she knew, he could be leaving and never coming back. Dressed in jeans, a tee, and a coat, he looked like a man ready to board the next Greyhound out of Trost. It hadn’t occurred to him until now. Even with the image he presented, his mother stood there, smiling, worried but attentive, and asked not if he’d be coming home, but if he had everything he needed. He gulped back the tears.

“I’m fine, Maman.” He shrugged and jangled the suitcase in his hand, putting on a weary smile just for her. “Don’t worry.” He laughed awkwardly, tugging his coat in towards his chest with his spare hand. “It’s not what it looks like.”

She laughed with him, a small huff of a chuckle that never reached her eyes. There was too much already there to disturb them. “I always worry.” She handed him something warm carefully wrapped in a cardboard box and patted his arm gently. “Just in case you need something from home.”

Her words rang in his mind while he cradled his mother’s warm gift in his arm. It seemed an odd companion to carry with him and made the carrying of a jonquil he had picked from the Bodt garden all the more cumbersome. But he was sure he would appreciate it when the time came.

The grass was its usual cool green when he trekked his way through the cemetery grounds. The daylight played out shadows from headstone crosses and the wings of stone angels, spanning across the ground. Dark from the early afternoon sun, they checkered the hills in a way Jean hadn't seen before. It felt eerier than the nights, with no wind to caress his face and cicadas crying out at the approaching heat of summer.

Waiting by Marco’s grave stood Luca, hair curly as ever, glowing in the bright sunlight like it shone for him and him alone. Jean found it hard to believe that the solemn-faced child that greeted him now was that same boy that used to beam at the door when Jean visited. He looked neither happy nor sad to be there, seeming ready to stand before a class to give a presentation with his hands nervously tucked behind his back. Perhaps this wasn't the best idea Jean had come up with, but it was one of the only things he could think of.

 “Hey buddy. You're early.” Jean placed the suitcase, flower, and cardboard box down by Marco's grave. He spied the bare patch in the grass where Jean had buried Marco’s things and felt a pang of guilt. There was no telling Luca that’s what happened with the box he was given. He couldn’t be sure what Luca would say or think about his choice.

Luca shrugged, hands falling into his pockets as if the two motions were one. “Nothing better to do.” His fingers fiddled and fidgeted with the seams of his shorts. Everything about him appeared nervous and uncomfortable to be there, even behind the solemn demeanour he carried with him that afternoon.

Concerned, Jean rested on one knee and watched Luca with a careful eye. He wondered if there was something he was missing, something the kid should be doing. Then the thought hit him. “What about your homework?”

Luca simply shrugged again. His eyes read over Marco’s headstone, drawing across the inscription slowly, reading it one or two times before he could look Jean in the eye.

“It's important, you know,” Jean insisted. Perhaps this was a bad idea after all. He peered around the cemetery looking for Rosa but found her nowhere in sight. There was no indication of whether Luca had walked here on his own or if Rosa had dropped him off and left him there. Though he had every intention of spending this time alone with Marco’s little brother, acting like a big brother of sorts, he had never intended for him to be alone for very long.

Blinking and raising his eyebrows, Luca rebutted, “I know. So is this.” His head nodded towards the suitcase, his brown curls bobbing lightly. His hair always seemed to have such life that it looked odd now that Luca’s face was devoid of smiles and his body remained so still.

With a gulp, letting the thoughts in his head mellow and stew, Jean undid the suitcase and withdrew the red and white checkered picnic blanket. It wasn’t his place to say anything. He wasn’t truly part of the family, as much as he hoped and felt he was. Rosa had barely said a word to him since; withdrawn into her room, she said very little at all. He felt all the more responsible for Luca’s well-being after his one and only visit. Jean wasn’t sure if he could gather the mental stamina to return again, but getting Luca out of the house, doing things, being in fresh air, was one of Jean’s priorities now.

With the blanket laid out and each of the snacks having made its way to the checkered blanket, he let himself finally speak aloud his thoughts. “You should --”  
  
Luca would have none of it and immediately interjected, “You're not my big brother.” It was defensive, biting at all the air suddenly expelled from his lungs. His eyes widened, and he was suddenly aware of how loud it had been -- how loud he had been -- and immediately regretted it. His shoulders drew up closer to his neck, eyes falling down to the grass at his feet. 

“No…” Jean placed the last of the containers out by a handful of napkins. For a second, he thought he saw his fingers tremble, but he couldn’t be sure with the way his throat went dry and his mind went numb. There was little more he could say than what came to his mind right then. “No, I'm not him.” He sat down and crossed his legs, turning from the headstone to the selection before him. His appetite waned, his teeth biting into his lip, worrying it more out of habit than with purpose. Everything he was trying to do was for Luca. Though as he sat there, hands rested in his lap, he couldn’t be entirely sure about that anymore.

“Sorry,” came Luca’s small voice. He shuffled onto the blanket and reached over to open each container one by one as Jean watched. First the slices of dried bread, then the cheese, a small sample of olive oil, the sliced tomato and thyme, a selection of salami, and lastly a helping of biscotti. All of the things they used to eat when they were younger, helping themselves to bits and pieces; each of them had been a new discovery for Jean. Luca seemed to know this too and leaned forward to rest his arms on his crossed legs, fiddling with his hands as he waited.

Quietly watching the way thread interwove in red and white within the blanket, Jean took a deep breathed and sighed. “I’m not trying to be him.” He faced Marco’s headstone and wondered whether his name was etched stronger in stone or in his memory. There came a crack somewhere inside Jean like a weight had shifted, falling and pressing and fracturing whatever lay beneath it, a realisation that fell too fast for Jean to breathe. “I could never be him.”

Luca said nothing, much to Jean’s relief. No one needed to assure him that he was very much a different man. Even now he felt lost, struggling to find where he was supposed to fit now that his world had changed. He turned to search over Luca’s face again, so frustratingly like his brother’s that Jean would drop whatever he had if it meant protecting him. Because that’s what Marco would do.

With another deep breath, Jean shook his head and forced his lips into a smile. “It's fine.” He grabbed a large slice of the bread for himself and passed another on to Luca. His hand gestured around at their selection. “Your brother and I used to do this. He insisted on it.” A laugh broke free from him at the thought. “You want to show me how it’s done?”

Luca’s eyes searched Jean’s for a moment, and when he found whatever he was looking for he simply replied, “Okay.” His small hands reached forward for the olive oil and drizzled it across his bread then passed it to Jean with a small noise of encouragement. Jean followed suit.

The sound of teeth crunching into bread filled the air. Mouth full of food, Luca mumbled over breadcrumbs, “Jean, is it okay to do this?”

“Hmmm?” Jean hummed through his piece, chewing away. He held his bread up, delicately balancing the oil on the surface. His eyes watched Luca with quiet interest. The boy finished chewing his mouthful and caught Jean’s gaze.

His head nodded towards the blanket, hands too busy worrying at his knees to gesture. “Have a picnic?” Luca’s voice held all the concern that what he was doing was wrong. Jean had thought they were enjoying themselves. His heart sank a little.

He couldn't let Luca see the concern that broiled within him. He shrugged his shoulders as dismissively, casually, as he could manage when he didn't know for sure. “I don't see why not.”

Luca made a face, pulling his lips up to the side, wrinkling his nose, before it all broke into an amused smile. “It's weird.” He looked about like there was excitement to be found in being caught doing something so benign.

Chuckling, Jean leaned over to poke Luca in the ribs. “A little like you.” He raised his eyebrows, waiting for a returned gaze, and tickled at his sides.

“Hey!” the boy squealed, squirming and wiggling in place. “No fair.” His hands became shields before his body, blocking any of Jean’s continuing attempts to poke his fingers into Luca’s side.

When the laughter died down and they both relaxed back on their hands, they stared at Marco’s name with poignant smiles. Somehow it felt peaceful to sit there. The breeze whisked past them and brushed against the blades of grass skirting around the blanket. The red and white against the fading brightness of the green made the afternoon brighter as the shadows grew softer and grey with the passing of time.

Luca’s voice rang out with another question. “So why are we here?” Curious and soft, it flowed from his lips like an exhale. His eyes never left Marco’s name.

Jean followed his gaze, smiling and looking around, hoping for his suspicions to be true, that Marco was still here right now. It would not be long before he would see him again. His mind wrapped itself so tightly around the idea that he wasn’t sure he could leave until he knew for sure. It wouldn’t be too long now, if he could only hold out.

A small elbow nudged his side and drew him out of his circling thoughts. Luca glanced up at him, worried, in only the way that a 12-year-old could. “Right, sorry.” Jean took a deep breath and forced a smile. “I -- we needed to do something for his birthday.” 

Furrowing his brows further, Luca appeared unconvinced. “But it's May. His birthday's not for another two weeks.” He crossed his arms, not in anger but in quiet demand of a real answer. There was still a spark of the old Luca in there somewhere.

“Yeah, I know,” Jean admitted. His shrugged his shoulders and tried to play off his plan as naturally as he could manage. He wasn’t sure how else to tell the boy that they were there because he might see the ghost of his brother and Jean had seen him before. Instead, he settled on a more stable lie. “This was the best day the calendar had to offer.” 

His thumb ran over the ring on his left hand. The gold felt smooth against his hand, and the more that Jean would touch it, remind himself of what it meant, the more he would hope to see Marco again. For all Jean knew, this might be the last chance before Marco’s birthday to see him. He needed to be there. Something inside him told him that, convinced him to be here, ready and early and waiting.

It was hard to hide his anticipation with Luca beside him, but perhaps, Jean suspected, he needed to see that glimpse of hope in someone again. Beneath more mouthfuls of bread and thyme, he pressed his lips together in small smiles and tensed his hands in frustrated waiting. He shook it all off with short tales and jokes, passing over more food, and picking up the one thing Jean had brought specifically today: a single white jonquil from the Bodt garden. It wasn’t the best of gifts, Jean decided, but it meant more than enough to him. He’d decided to bring it with him anyway.

Jean stood slowly with the flower clasped in his hand. Feeling self-conscious with the knowledge that Marco would be right there, watching him, he approached Marco’s headstone with trepidation and eyes downcast. “Happy Birthday, Marco,” he whispered close to the headstone. His hand settled upon it as if ensuring his gift would stay fixed with simply the sense of will permeating from him.

Above his hand, white wisps began to form into a semblance of fingers, mirroring his hand. They looked more faded in the daylight. Jean bit his lip hard while he watched them twist and swirl from from the hand he could see into what he knew would soon be a fully formed Marco. His throat gulped reflexively, the sense of fear and worry still hitting him deep. He suspected he would almost never be used to this.

Jean stood rigid, with his hand holding onto the stone. It felt rough beneath his fingers and no less real when Marco’s visage began to form. He had to remind himself that Luca still sat behind him, watching him and likely wondering why Jean was standing so still for so long. Air rushed into his lungs, a sudden gasp at the presence of that familiar white figure. Even though he had hoped for it, today of all days, it still felt out of place with Luca there. He would soon find out how Luca found the visage of his brother. Perhaps this was a very bad idea after all.

Yet, as Marco formed and Jean stood there, Luca calmly watched. His demeanour never changed in the corner of Jean’s eye, even when Marco’s eyes turned to colour and locked with his. Jean’s lips sealed shut, teeth biting into the back of them like they couldn’t stay shut on their own. All he wanted to do was speak. He hadn’t thought this through at all.

Marco’s same old smile at his presence faltered at the look on Jean’s face, instantly falling in favour of a frown. His eyes drew to Luca, quieting waiting for Jean to return from his apparent trance, and welled up with tears. “You brought him?”

Luca sat there silently despite Marco’s apparition. Unsure of whether he was alone in his ability to see Marco or not, Jean simply nodded curtly in reply. Perhaps it was all in his head. Surely it couldn’t be only him.

Jean struggled with what to say and turned instead to judge Luca’s reaction for himself. The boy continued to sit, picking at the last of the tomato and biting it gingerly with his teeth. Yet Jean’s gaze drew his attention and he spoke the first thing in a long while in the form of a question. “You okay, Jean?”

His mouth felt dry when he tried to speak. Of course he was okay, but here was Marco, right in front of him, not quite living and breathing, but there. Despite what Jean could see, what he believed was truly there, Luca couldn’t see a single speck of him, nor hear his voice. There was something so desperately sad and lonely about that.

Scratching his hair behind his ear like he always used to, Marco’s head tilted and a smile formed upon his face. “Yeah, you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Marco added with a nonchalant shrug. Jean choked on whatever answer he had been forming and stared bluntly at the huge grin now on Marco’s face. “Come now, let’s be real, you have.”

 _You want to talk about ‘real’?_ Jean thought, wanting very badly to speak the words aloud. He forced his lips shut before he gave them life. Jean grit his teeth and held back the urge to scream. Instead he huffed and retreated back to Luca’s side like the new knowledge he had just received wasn’t sinking in and weighing him down.

Letting this moment be real was the exact thing he was struggling with. Luca sat there, humming to himself, like the sun setting and the night settling was nothing more than the colour of the sky changing. It had become so much more to Jean, and he had yet to decide what that was. Regardless, now was the time he needed to stay strong, even though that feeling surged in his chest again and smiling was all he could do to stop himself from hurting.

He leaned forward to open the cardboard box his mother had given him. Inside he found a single slice of moist chocolate cake. Nothing ever seemed to escape his mother’s knowledge; even if she didn’t know the specifics, she had a way of knowing just what to do. He broke the slice in half, passing one piece to Luca on a napkin, who placed it in his lap just as Jean did.

“So,” he finally announced, waiting for Luca’s attention before he continued, “We’re here for Marco’s birthday.” His gaze flickered to the place where Marco stood rather than the name on his grave. The smile grew on Marco’s face, knowing that this was coming but humbled all the same. There was no surprising a man who was privy to everything he saw around him. “We should sing, or something.”

Marco’s voice cut through the silence. “My birthday’s weeks from now, Jean. You know that.” As concerned as he sounded, the quiver in his voice told him how much this meant to Marco. His eyebrows pinched themselves together in puzzlement.

Jean shrugged, talking to both of them as best he could. “This is the only chance I have.” There was not another new moon for at least a month and Jean wouldn’t wait until then to see Marco for his birthday. It didn’t matter to him that he was early, because it was better than being late, and what were birthdays now -- now that he was… different.

Shuffling in his spot, Luca shrugged self-consciously. He’d never been fond of singing for as long as Jean had known him. He’d struggled enough to gain a voice to speak aloud, let alone put a tune to it. He tensed, drawing up his shoulders. “Do we have to?” Luca’s voice held that same kind of nervous tweak as his brother’s when he felt uncomfortable.

A laugh from Jean’s mouth punctuated the silence. He shrugged in an attempt to make Luca more comfortable. He didn’t want to force him. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

Luca shyly peered up at Jean. “I really don’t want to.” The darkness settling around him made the brown in his eyes darker but no less warm, no less nervous. Everything about him said the last thing he wanted to do was sing. Jean couldn’t remember the last time he had.

“Okay then,” Jean relented and pulled Luca close with an arm around his shoulder. “Think you could hum along with me while I sing?” His hand squeezed Luca’s arm and nudged gently against him. He hoped Luca would warm up a little bit and join him. He snuck a peek at Marco, who was chuckling quietly to himself. Jean let out a sigh and self-deprecating laugh. “I’m going to look silly singing it on my own.”

Luca smiled at that. His shoulders lowered, relaxing into Jean’s hold, and his chin rose up confidently. Together, they watched the grass move before Marco’s headstone as the wind swept by. It was so perfect and strange that Marco was there watching them both, unable to look Jean in the eye at times and finally lowering himself down to sit on the ground.  

“Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you,” Jean began to sing when Luca started humming and tugged the boy close as he gazed into Marco’s eyes. “Happy Birthday, dear Marco.” He paused to savour the name, the look on Marco’s face, and take another breath to stop the tears forming in his eyes from falling. “Happy Birthday to you.”

“We don’t have to do the next bit, do we?” Luca blurted, tensing up again, already embarrassed by having to hum as much as he did. He promptly took a large bite of the cake as if he hoped it would prevent him from being called to hum again.

Jean shook his head. He hadn’t intended to keep going in the first place. “No, it’s fine.” He patted Luca on the back before withdrawing his arm to his side. There was a sense of pride that Jean felt then, alongside his sense of satisfaction. It joined with the fluttering in his chest at the sight of Marco smiling in Luca’s direction. He could see a kind of warmth there that Jean had seen so many times before, but this time all the more wistful. The idea of Marco never being able to talk to him again hadn’t been something Jean had considered.

Clearing his throat, Jean tried his best to start some kind of conversation. “What do you miss most about him?” The words left his mouth in the only way he knew how to put them together. A sense of dread sat uncomfortably in his stomach. Even with Marco right before him, there were so many things he missed about Marco, about spending time with Marco, that he could never list them all. Admitting any of them before him might just break them both.

Beside him, Luca shuffled and shrugged. His hands rubbed over his knuckles in the same way Marco used to when he was nervous. “I miss him being home. It doesn’t feel the same with just Mama.”

Humming and nodding, Jean couldn’t disagree with that. Marco held a sense of home with him wherever he went. Perhaps that’s why Jean felt so comfortable here in the cemetery with the knowledge that Marco was always watching, and that sometimes he was lucky enough to watch him back.

On Marco’s face was a soft smile sitting with a shimmer in the corner of his lips, and a trail of the tears down his cheeks, wiping away the colour in their wake. Jean tensed every muscle to keep from joining him and took to eating his slice of cake to distract himself.

“I miss the way he used to laugh about… things,” Luca continued, sounding sadder, struggling to keep his voice afloat with the pool of tears in his eyes. Jean felt a twinge of guilt in his chest. He had started this.

In an attempt to clear the air, Jean added his own thing he missed after he finished his bite. “I miss his pancakes in the morning. He made some killer pancakes, didn’t he?” He playfully nudged an elbow in Luca’s ribs and snuck a look in Marco’s direction. He was chuckling now. The dimples in his cheeks made him look all the more solid and present.

Luca rolled his eyes. “Except when he burned them.” The look on his face changed, frown gone like its frozen form had melted away and left a twitching smile in its wake. It tickled Jean to know he had played some part in putting it there.

A strange guttural sound followed. Like the creaking of old wet wood covered in moss, it was low, inconsistent, and hollow, as if someone had walked across a floor that growled like a beast. Goosebumps prickled across Jean’s skin, leading a trail of discomfort up to his neck. He found Marco to be the source of the sound, his pleasant expression now dropped and turned serious. “That was one time!”

Luca didn’t seem to notice either of them. “One time, the whole kitchen smelt really bad.” He snickered and wiped away the wetness on his cheeks. “Mama told him off because the smoke alarm went off.”

“Wait, what’s this?” Jean asked with a puzzled, apprehensive side glance at Marco. Sneaking his glances felt strangely satisfying; tingles coursed through the muscles around his lips, wanting him to smile at every one. Yet there Luca was, looking up at him, hint of hope in his eyes and drawn to attention by Jean’s question.

“He never told you?” Warm brown eyes, glassy and red from tears, stared up into Jean’s. Something about his face looked younger now. Perhaps it was the angle or the quiet shaking in his voice, but they might as well have been eating pancakes in the morning for all the youth Jean saw in Luca’s face right now.

“No…” As soon as Luca’s eyes turned back to the grave, Jean turned slowly towards Marco with an accusative stare. Marco sat with lips pressed and arms crossed, shaking his head. Jean could only raise an eyebrow at him.

From the corner of his eye Jean saw Luca shrug, his cheeks puffing up while his face contorted in his amusement. “It was pretty funny.” His fingers reached up to fiddle with his lips and suppress the laughter building behind them. “He really enjoyed cooking. Especially when you were coming over.” 

A warm flush rushed up to Jean’s face, tickling at his cheekbones, and sending a disturbance through the swarm of butterflies suddenly in his stomach. Curious and hopeful, Jean caught Marco’s gaze. They stared at each other as Luca continued some story about a time Marco spilt sugar all over the kitchen floor. Jean only heard the faintest of details, lost to the peculiar change beginning in Marco’s form.

The specks of Marco’s cheeks started glimmering with a subtle pink hue, the same colour they used to turn whenever he was embarrassed, as rare as that was. A smile caught in his features, specks flickering just a little with white glowing light. Not that Marco needed any more radiance in his smile.

Jean’s entire neck grew warm, breath halting and faltering like it was his lungs on fire. He relaxed at the sound of Luca’s laughter, drawing him from his staring, much to Jean’s relief. Immediately he found concern growing in his chest at the realisation that Luca’s laugh had lost its brightness and had sunk down to something more nervous, more uncertain.

The breath Luca took next trembled, his lungs shakily sipping in air, like every breath was now not enough. Jean wondered how he could have missed this, how he could have missed how uncomfortable Luca had become, sitting right next to him.

Luca’s lips hung open, miming ‘oh’s and ‘ah’s in the silence of the night. Only the breath before each failed word sounded out. He gulped, forcing a smile in Jean’s direction. “It’s okay to be sad, right?” His hands wormed over each other again and despite Jean’s worry, Luca didn’t cry. He meant this. It held all the weight of a question long unasked.

Eyebrows furrowed, Jean answered, “Yeah, buddy. Everyone’s got to be sad sometime.” With Luca’s eyes turned downward, Jean shot a worried look to Marco and bit his lip. Marco had sat there so patiently, so quietly, and now watched, transfixed, how his brother absorbed Jean’s words with thankful nods.

Another deep breath broke the tension. Jean’s arm wrapped around Luca’s shoulder and drew him close, sneaking a teary smile in Marco’s direction. “Your brother is closer than you think, and he’s watching over you right now.”

As much as Jean didn’t want to give Luca false hopes or ideas he might not have thought of himself, it was the closest to the truth. A laugh escaped him in his relief of being able to say something about the strange circumstances he had found himself in, even if it did sound so very familiar and rehearsed. 

Marco shook his head with a laugh and a glimmer entered his eyes. This time it was not from the glow of the specks, rather something so much more human and real that Jean’s breathing stopped for a second. Just being in his presence made his chest feel tight in a way that it hadn’t ever before, but the comfort and sense of home remained.

Feeling the sting of tears in his eyes when he closed them, Jean spoke softly, gesturing out in front of him awkwardly. “You and I… well… we’re going to cry until the flowers grow.” He huffed a laugh and stared at the ground before them, where grew the grass in awkward patches.

It took everything in Jean to not respond to the long sigh Marco let out before a whisper of “Really, Jean?”

Luca’s eyebrows rose, but he said nothing in return. His head turned slowly in Jean’s direction, eyes full of a confused apprehension that judged Jean and every fibre of his being. Jean suspected he’d never been so harshly judged by a 12-year-old before. His smile appeared hollow, lips pulled back more in distaste, for Jean’s sake, than anything else.

Shrugging his shoulders, Jean huffed another laugh, and yet another one followed its desperate sound. “That was supposed to be funny,” he whined in explanation. He couldn’t argue that hadn’t been a horrible delivery. He couldn’t defend it when he wasn’t even sure what he was trying to say in the first place.

Luca nudged him back in his ribs, harder than he intended, just like Marco used to. He scoffed and snickered behind shielding fingers. “You’re really bad at being funny, Jean.”

Before them both, Marco joined in his laughter, nodding in agreement. “He has a point.” Jean held back every urge he had to retort back at Marco about how he wasn’t so great with jokes either. They already both knew how bad of an idea that would be, and how Jean had no chance of winning that argument in the first place.

Luca yawned loudly and wiggled his feet, leaning against Jean while he blinked his eyes, trying to keep awake. “I don’t want to cry anymore,” he muttered before another yawn took hold. 

The specks on Marco’s hand separated, swirling in place, glowing bright and white. The smile in his face broke, worried by the sound in his brother’s voice. “Take him home, Jean. Please.”

Jean mouthed silently, “But…” and gestured towards Marco’s form when he was sure Luca’s eyes were closed. There were so many more hours to the night that he could stay, but with Luca growing limp in his arms, it would be best to take the kid home to bed.

Marco edged towards them with his hand reached outward. Still a collection of small white specks, it shimmered and shook like his hesitation sent ripples through his form. Colour still permeated above his elbow, retaining the familiar dark blue of a police uniform.

An inch from Luca’s face, the white specks came together, forming back into the shape of his hand. Their glow made the boy’s face look so much more peaceful than it had in weeks, and the white light that the specks gave off began to glow with a hint of blue. “He’s so tired.” His voice was warm and buzzing when his fingertips grazed just above Luca’s cheek, almost touching.

“Yeah…” Jean answered him quietly. He watched the way Marco’s hand glimmered at the edges despite how solid it appeared to have become. “I’ve never seen you this blue before.”

Marco instantly withdrew his hand, inspecting it before his face. The specks continued to swirl, moving faster at the turning of his wrist, glowing a consistent light blue. “I learned I can change it.”

He raised his palm skyward, open and offering, as if he was waiting for something to land upon it. Nothing came. Instead his eyes narrowed and the colour in the centre of his hand disappeared, fading to white. The specks appeared again as his hand broke apart in thousands of tiny little pieces.

Transfixed by the beauty glowing in the middle of Marco’s palm, Jean could find no words to express what he felt. He wanted to touch the glow, hold it in his own hand and call it his own. He wished he knew what move he was meant to make. Sitting still, waiting patiently, was his best option for now.

Marco’s whole hand dissolved into a collection of white specks in the semblance of a hand. From the centre rose a small swirl of specks; they twisted together like Marco’s form always had and formed together into a white glowing moth. Its wings flapped in time with the closing of Marco’s eyelids, Jean noticed. It stayed there, glowing white, while the rest of his hand settled back into colour.

“I can make things,” he asserted, quietly proud of his creation. He threw a small smile in Jean’s direction before he mimed a gentle puff of air towards the moth. It took wing, flying towards Jean’s face, and settled on his cheek.

“What the hell…” Jean froze. He stared wide-eyed at the glowing thing now resting on his skin. It tingled pleasantly and disappeared in a swirl of specks, trailing back to Marco’s awaiting hand. They merged back into the specks that created his form as if they had never existed to begin with. Feeling like he could breathe again, Jean asked what was on his mind. “When did you learn to do that?”

Marco shrugged, smiling to himself. “I have a lot of time alone, I guess.” He settled close to Jean, folding his hands in his lap. Jean had almost forgotten he wasn’t quite… the same, anymore. There were so many words he could call Marco when he found himself confronted by the strange way he now was. All of them seemed wrong.

Jean scratched at the itch on his neck, likely trying to remove the sense of uncertainty crawling beneath his skin. “It’s pretty cool though,” he admitted.

“I touched you,” he said with a teary smile. His hand reached out again for Jean’s face, just as hopeful as he was scared. “Can I? Can I try it again?”

Marco’s fingers hovering before his eyes, Jean nodded. Radiant and glimmering, they appeared to be made of moonlight, shining as if they reflected light back into the darkness. “You can touch me?” he wondered aloud. “How?”

Marco appeared to gulp, though no sound accompanied it. Another action of habit rather than necessity. As human as he appeared, all of his actions, his movements, were from memory, everything that made Marco _Marco_.  

“I might? I just want to try.” His hand moved to cup Jean’s cheek but came into contact too quickly, curling Marco’s fingers backwards and forcing them to glow. He withdrew to try once again, letting his hand sit just close enough to caress along Jean’s face with a featherlight touch. A tingle worked its way up his face, like Marco’s very touch set a blush to his skin, but it was so much more than that.

A mixture of relief and joy formed on Marco’s face amongst the freckles that adorned it. His eyes shone, his lips smiled, and his face relaxed all the tension Jean hadn’t realised was there before. His face softened and Jean knew then that this was something exciting and new; every part of this moment told him to smile too. He placed his hand over Marco’s as lightly as he could. He had to be sure it was there, and it was.

His fingers ran over Marco’s, sparking some white specks to form and burn a brilliant blue at his touch. The tingling continued, like the warmth of a burning candle or the touch of a plasma globe. “This counts, right?” Jean asked, and Marco nodded with a self-assured smile.

“Hmmm?” Luca stirred, nuzzling his face into Jean’s shoulder. “Wha’ di’you say, Jean?” His words blurred into each other. His eyes blinked open, struggling against the sleep that held them down.

Jean reluctantly removed his hand from his face, hoping Luca wasn’t awake enough to notice the way had been cradling nothingness on his own cheek. “Time to take you home, buddy.” He flashed a reluctant frown at Marco, whose hand still rested upon his cheek, not wanting to let go.

Too drowsy to respond coherently, Luca agreed with croaking hums. He let his eyes shut themselves and fell towards Jean like a ragdoll. Marco withdrew his hand from Jean’s cheek to ruffle Luca’s hair. Specks glowed through it, catching each curve in the curls as he passed his hand over it. “He’s so peaceful like this,” Marco pondered aloud.

Jean followed in Marco’s stead, running his hand through the locks of Luca’s hair, checking to see if he was asleep. The boy didn’t wake this time. Jean took his leave to pack up the remnants of their picnic, gently placing Luca on the grass while he folded up the picnic blanket to place it in the suitcase. Lastly, he walked up to Marco, who waited behind his headstone, and tapped the stonework lightly for good luck.

“Happy Birthday again.” His shoulders drew up self-consciously and his eyes hid the swarming of thoughts in his mind by staring at his shoes. “I’m sorry we didn’t talk much, but I thought you should see him.” 

“Jean.” The pain and care in his voice melded together in way that Jean could never resist, especially not when Marco spoke his name. Marco continued when they locked eyes again. “Any time you visit, it’s nice. I just like having you here.”

“I like being here,” Jean spat back quicker than he expected. “I’ll be back, okay?” He wanted to assure Marco of everything, that he would be fine, that his mother was fine, that Luca would be okay. None of it held the certainty like his promise to return. That he _knew_ he could keep. As Jean bent down to pick Luca up, drawing him into his arms to carry him home, he knew for certain that he would be back no matter what. “See you when I get back here.”

Luca muttered a series of nothings while Jean carried him home and uncomfortably juggled the suitcase in one of his hands. As hard as it was to carry him the few blocks home like that, Jean couldn’t bear to throw him over his shoulder, as easy as it would have been. There was something too harsh about that, after seeing how gently Marco had reached for him, how much he had wanted his brother to go home, even if it meant he would be alone.

Marco’s younger brother took to his bed and curled up with his blankets, forgetting the troubles that burdened him in the waking hours. The image of that peace on his face followed Jean home, where he too curled up and tucked a pillow into his arms, remembering the days when he didn’t sleep alone.

A good night’s rest settled on Jean’s shoulders like a fluffy blanket, warm and comfortable and soothing. He walked as if a weight had been lifted, his steps less trudging and his back straighter. Memories of that night brought the occasional smile to his face, and every now and then he would reach up to touch his cheek as if Marco’s hand was still there. With every touch, he found himself taking a deep breath and playing it over again in his head. This secret, he decided, was less of a burden to bear.

* * *

Work throughout the week passed by without a hitch. The picnic disappeared to the back of Jean’s mind. His days seemed to pass easily and the sensitive way that people held themselves around him faded away, much to Jean’s relief. Their shoulders relaxed, their eyes settled, and their laughter grew less self-conscious around him. Two months had passed since the raid and things were finally falling back into place.

The day of the stock order, Jean arrived at work early, prepping himself for the 6am start with an espresso. The barista a few shops down had burned the milk again, but Jean was too tired -- compliant, really -- to worry about complaining today. No one should have to wake up this early to help a business. At least he was being paid.

In the blur of waking blindness, Jean could just make out Armin standing in front of the glass windows of Smith and Zoe. He stood with his arms crossed, rubbing his hands over his elbows absent-mindedly. Loose strands of blond fell from his small ponytail, barely registering as they stroked his cheek. His eyes squinted beneath worried brows, signaling the series of cogs that ran in the mind behind them. It took Jean a second before he could work up the nerve to disturb him. Something was happening behind those glasses of his.

 “Got your dose of caffeine?” Jean gestured with the coffee warming his hand. Armin’s bleary eyes met his with a lack of expression that answered his question without words. “Guess that’s a no.”

Armin shrugged his hands into his slacks pockets. Even this early in the morning, Armin still dressed the part in a white business shirt, brown pressed slacks, and leather shoes. He was a tie and suspenders short from walking out of another decade. With the amount of things Armin knew, Jean almost wouldn’t be surprised if that was the case.

“It didn’t seem like the kind of morning to inject coffee into my veins.” A weak smile formed on Armin’s worried face. He nodded to the cup in Jean’s hands. “I shall awaken vicariously through you.”

“As you wish,” he answered before taking another swig. The warmth of the coffee filtered through his chest with every sip. His eyes began to see more clearly and their morning fog began to disappear. The brew trickled uncomfortably down his throat, the taste lingering. “You look dreadful. Everything okay?”

“It ought to be.” Armin fiddled with the hems of his pockets. Perhaps it was the hour, or there truly was worry working its way through his hands like that. Jean thought better of asking. “But I’m not the one who stays up until all hours of the night.”

Resisting the urge to spit out his coffee, Jean moved up beside him and leaned against the wall. “What? Have you been following me?” he asked in jest. He couldn’t deny the sudden paranoia that Armin had seen him at the cemetery and watched whatever it looked like to have a conversation with a ghost. The thought of it made the image of Marco glow in his mind. Now wasn’t the time.

“I’m probably up to something sneaky,” Jean joked quickly, trying to draw attention from his thoughts in case Armin could truly read minds. The last thing Jean wanted was Armin catching onto the thoughts of Marco that continued to float around in his head.

Despite his efforts, Armin’s eyes still looked him over like he could read every part of Jean like a book. “You’re the least sneaky person I know. Everyone knows you’re not getting much sleep, Jean.”

Rolling his eyes, Jean scoffed and slumped against the glass windows. “What else is new?”

Footsteps approached them with a regular beat. Dressed all in black, Levi strolled up to join them, arms crossed and sleeves pressed up to his elbows, crumpled from impatience. “If he doesn’t sleep that’s his baggage, not yours.” His voice was brusque, making only the sounds he needed it to as he stared up at the both of them. The timbre of it held all the weight his height lacked. He joined them leaning against the wall, eyeing them with weary eyes.

A small glint hit the blue of Armin’s eyes when he looked at Jean. He had some way of expressing his sense of humour like that. Jean always figured it was something he imagined because of how sharp Armin’s eyes appeared behind the lenses. A smile soon followed on his face when he adjusted his glasses by the frame. “It’s all that stuff he gets up to at night.”

Jean huffed a laugh through his nose, immediately scratching at it self-consciously. “Stuff?” Another sip punctuated his question. It tasted stronger the more of it he drank. The more heat it lost, the more unpleasant it felt on his tongue. He continued to drink through it anyway, for the caffeine. “You’re probably hiding your own secret nightlife.” 

A series of indistinguishable tired sounds erupted from Levi’s mouth. He tensed his shoulders. “If you want to start talking about which one of your bits go where and when, I’m out.” He peered around the empty mall for additional unfortunate souls relegated to the early morning shift. When he visibly relaxed, Jean followed Levi’s gaze and found Erwin was approaching.

Erwin dressed like he took work home with him and walked like 6am was his usual business hour. Jean didn’t think anyone else could look as put together as Erwin Smith looked that morning. Jean suppressed the groan in his throat when Erwin greeted them all with a low “Morning.”

“You make that sound like an announcement,” Jean mused, feeling the bile in his stomach work its taste on his tongue at the mention of morning. Armin beside him said nothing, but his chest rose tensely.

Levi blinked slowly; some semblance of a shrug moved his shoulders, but not enough to be sure it was one. “You took a while to get here. I nearly had to make small talk.” Sarcasm had always been one of Levi’s strong suits, though his humour was far too dry for Jean to know whether he should laugh, or whether it was truly humour at all.

“Why is Levi here, sir?” Armin asked quietly, fiddling at the hems of his slack pockets again. Early mornings looked uncomfortable on him, more so than Jean thought they looked on himself. Armin had always been a night owl, working late into the night until sleep either took him by surprise or by force, usually both. When tiredness got to him, his curiosity showed more than at any other time.

Levi’s eyes settled on Armin with a calm that Jean suspected had grown with time yet still held a quiet chill. “You think they’d do a stock order without me?” Despite the cut of his tone, just a trace of a smile softened it at the edges.

“At 6am?” Armin sunk his hands into his pockets and slumped his shoulders. He squinted like his glasses had grown foggy. He was always one for asking questions. “Why would we need you at the crack of dawn?”

Erwin silently pushed past to unlock the glass door. It clicked and swung open without a sound of hesitation. Stepping inside, he waited by the door and held it open with a broad hand. “Levi’s here for the diamond order.” One by one they trudged into the store. Erwin let the door shut behind them before disappearing to his office.

In the early morning, the glass cabinets held just the tiniest bit of shine. It was hard to believe this was the same place when it was full of shadows instead of reflected light. Everything sprung to life within seconds when Levi flicked the lights on, and Jean’s eyes squinted uncomfortably.

“Just keeping it to the four of us then?” he asked, placing his now empty coffee cup on the nearest cabinet. A yawn escaped after his question, drawing a questioning glance from Levi, followed by a silent and stern nod. He passed them without another word and joined Erwin in quiet discussion in the office.

Hanging his head defeatedly, Jean slunk to the back room and flopped down into his chair. He could usually read the scribbles upon scribbles of numbers written on the stacks of organisers before him, but for now the numbers blurred together. “Looks like you and I pulled the short straws.”

Jean pulled out his stock book with a heavy sigh and began to work his way through the series of watch parts, noting down exactly what he had and how much more he would need. Armin behind him started the same with the store’s collection of gems. The tinkering he heard felt familiar, comfortable.

The noise of metal against metal and the constant shift of paper set Jean’s nerves at ease. That change was swiftly undone by Armin’s musings. “Do you ever just look at all these tiny parts and wonder how you manage to deal with things so small? How we put things together?”

Jean thumbed over the metal gear in his hand. It was barely as wide as his fingernails and just as thin. “I guess… I don’t think I’ve given it that much thought. I’m usually busy.” He laughed and continued his counting, waiting for some amusing retort from Armin.

“With those late nights of yours?” His question stopped the noises of sorting and counting; pens lay rested on wood. Their room was so much quieter when neither of them moved.

 Dodging the question, Jean made an effort to sound busy, scratching at the page and drawing a series of swirls. “What do you mean ‘late nights’?”

“I didn’t want to get into it in front of them, but…” Armin paused and cleared his throat. Leaning closer, he whispered, “That’s why you’re tired a lot, right?”

“Maybe I’m just exhausted with life, Armin.” Jean gestured to nowhere in particular, trying to grasp how he could answer him without giving himself away. He expected that they both sat with their backs turned, as they always did.

Completely unforgiving in his tone, Armin cut straight to the question that had been plaguing his mind. “Where do you go after work at night?”

Jean could feel Armin’s eyes settling on the back of his neck. He froze, the fear of Armin working it out still still tensing his muscles. The gears in his hand dropped to his page, causing a pattering rather than a clattering. His mind wrestled with whether it would be better to tell Armin the truth, some variation of it, or nothing at all. Surely he would be able to hear Jean’s lies, though, though. Nothing got past Armin.

“I go for walks. To think,,” Jean finally responded,, then got back to work, scribbling away on the page. He hoped the sound of the pen would hide the percussion of the heartbeat in his chest. While it was partly true, the larger truth was not something he was willing to part with, not when it might look like he had parted with his sanity.

The breathing behind him changed to deep breaths of thought and huffs of hesitation. Whatever Armin was thinking, whatever he was stopping himself from saying, he wasn’t sure if he should pry pry. Jean knew that much. With one last hum, Armin dismissed it and returned to his counting. Their morning continued in silence with only the stroke of pens and tinkering of tools resonating in the room.

Their peace broke with a heavy footstep. Jean refused to look up, expecting a normal check-in on their progress two hours down the line. He prepared himself to argue that counting every little piece of shrapnel they had in their arsenal before 9am was its own special form of cruelty.

Erwin dismissed all of his concerns with a perplexed tone. “There’s a kid at the door for you.” When Jean looked up, his immense eyebrows looked almost comical when drawn together in a combination of suspicion and worry. It wasn’t every day that Jean had a visitor. Certainly not one that turned up before the store opened. ‘‘Peculiar’’ seemed the right thing to call it.

“Must be Luca,” Armin offered, swivelling around on his chair. He had a penchant for poking his nose into anything that piqued his curiosity which which meandered between laudable and annoying.

Jean let it go and spoke his thoughts aloud. “What’s he doing here this early?” There should have been no reason for Luca to visit him at work, let alone at this hour. Luca should be on his way to school by now. If he was turning up to work, especially alone, that couldn’t be a good sign.

Armin cleared his throat again. His chair squeaked when he leaned to peer out the open door. “Were you expecting him?

Jean had not expected to see Luca for some time. Not after how their night had ended. He wondered whether Luca had dreamed of him, or of Marco, hoping his nightmares were less than what Jean could imagine. Yet the surprise of Luca's sudden appearance still sat uncomfortably with Jean, regardless of the reason.

"No..." he answered, and trailed off into silence. Words faded away as he tried to form his thoughts. But his mind couldn’t construct a reason for Luca to be here.

He laid down the pieces in his hand and let his pen roll across the table. It stopped against a pile of gears he had discarded. He left the mess at his table, standing and pushing his chair back under his desk with nothing else to say to Armin.

Jean rehearsed everything he wanted to ask Luca on the way over. His feet dragged as if trying to delay the inevitable. He could already see the brown of Luca's eyes, standing behind the front glass doors like nothing was amiss. Somehow he held hope within his stature, hands clasped around the handle of a canvas bag. He looked so small and quiet and yet so brave, standing there in the dim lights of the mall, waiting for Jean to reach him.

Jean opened the door with a squeak. The glass still felt cold from the morning, reminding him how odd it was that he was here this early himself.

"Hey kiddo, what are you doing up this early?" He asked the first question on his mind. Luca hadn't been the same kind of morning person as Marco. He had only woken up early when he needed to, especially if a good breakfast was promised.

"I brought something for you." His small voice answered, staring up at Jean like he towered above him though their height difference had never felt that big to Jean. He seemed so insistent and sure in his purpose that his eyes never left Jean's face.

Still concerned about Luca's well-being, Jean leaned out past the glass doors, searching for Rosa in hopes that he hadn't once again left home by himself. "Did you come here on your own?"

Jean pushed past Luca to get a better look. One side was empty save for a security guard -- probably Reiner by the look of him -- walking up the hall towards the bank. Down the other, leaning against a pole just out of sight, Jean spotted Rosa, and sighed, relieved. She smiled back with a slight nod to acknowledge him. The tense feeling in his chest faded away and he retreated back to his position in the doorway.

"Mama's waiting," Luca asserted with a smile. He looked over to her himself and grinned even wider. Somehow this had made him happy. Jean couldn't question that as much as he wanted to. "I asked her to bring me on the way to school."

Once again Jean felt he was interrupting Luca's school life, like his existence was merely a distraction from all the things a 12-year-old kid should be doing. It pained him to think that Luca needed to see him and that despite all his assertions that Jean wasn't his big brother, Luca had found something in Jean to look up to. He didn't know whether to feel humbled or concerned. Either way, an awkward feeling sat in the pit of his stomach.

"Must be important, then?" he asked, glancing over the bag in Luca's hands, hesitant to reach out for it. Nothing that came in a canvas bag at this hour could ever be that good. However, Jean still hoped, deep down, that maybe it was something warm, something baked, something sweet. The look on Luca's face gave no indication either way.

Jean entertained the idea that Luca had actually seen Marco that night, but in his strange 12-year-old wisdom had completely ignored any of it. It made no sense that bright and buoyant Luca, who was so easily affected by those he cared about, would sit unaffected by the brother he adored, regardless of his form. Nevertheless, Luca turning up at eight in the morning made no sense either.

"These are for you." Luca thrust the handle of the canvas bag forward, like both an unwanted burden and a rushed gift. There was something so final in the way he pushed it over. Jean suspected he would not like the contents he found inside.

"What's this?" he asked, not wanting to guess or know. The urge to throw it aside scratched at his insides. "It's Marco's birthday in a week, not mine. You don't need to give me gifts." Jean smiled, although poorly. He knew this bag contained nothing remotely close to gifts. Gifts did not come so hurriedly wrapped at 8am when someone was passing by. Luca, at least, did not wrap gifts this way. Jean preferred to feign ignorance all the same.

"It's not that." His correction sounded amused at first, but his voice quickly changed to something much more solemn. "It's his stuff from the academy. It finally arrived." Luca's finger tugged at the hem of the bag so Jean might peek inside.

"Oh..." Suddenly Jean felt watched, like everyone inside Smith and Zoe had become aware of this exchange and had been hanging on his every word. He didn't dare turn around to find out if that uncomfortable feeling on his neck was justified. "Why aren't you keeping it? Why isn't your Mama looking through these?"

Rosa had turned away from him, arms crossed as if to hold herself together. She rubbed over her elbows, too busy in her own thoughts to watch over them, over her son.

"We have." Those words sounded heavy in his sweet voice. "Mama thought you might like them, might want to look through them." She appeared so strangely calm and composed in the background, but she didn't see him looking her way.

Jean nodded, feeling heat rising up from the tightness in his chest. The bag hung from his hand, feeling empty despite its weight. This was everything he had wanted to know, all in one bag waiting in his hands. He wasn't sure he was ready for it.

"I have to go to school," Luca insisted. He rushed forth to wrap his arms around Jean for a quick hug before he ran back to Rosa. Jean watched as Luca's hand took Rosa’s and he led her away. Even now, he had taken on so much that every little thing he did, every gesture, made Jean think of Marco.

"What's this? You're receiving gifts at work now?" Levi asked before Jean could close the door. He found Levi standing quietly to the side, concerned but not overly worried, with his arms crossed across his chest.

 Jean tugged at the bag, jostling it until it made a sound. He had intended for it to sound as unlike a gift as possible. "I wouldn't call it that."

"What's in there?" Armin chimed in. Curious things had a way of drawing his attention, especially when mystery was involved. Somehow it was equally amusing and irritating. That's just how Armin was. He reached to poke at the bag to produce another collection of sounds. "It's making an interesting noise. Paper, a book maybe, something jangly."

Levi huffed what must have been a chuckle. "Secret admirer?" Levi's attempts at playful teasing had a way of diffusing tension. Whether they were amusing or not was another question.

"No." He had no patience for pointing out that Levi had probably been there the whole time to see Luca. The cut in Jean's voice stopped his coworkers. They held themselves and their breaths until Jean continued. "Some of Marco's things. From his family."

"Oh." Confused, Armin's eyebrows drew into a line. "Why would they give you that here?" He took the dangling bag from Jean's hand, outreached in his reluctance to be the one to open it. As Jean watched, unable to move, Armin began to unpack the contents onto a glass cabinet before him.

"He was on his way to school." Jean shrugged, thinking of how small Luca had looked in the doorway. "I guess it's fewer memories that they have to hold onto that way." His eyes followed each new item Armin drew from the bag. 

First there were a series of notebooks, with spirals bent and covers scratched from age. There were at least four of them, each just as roughed up as the last. They were followed by a series of papers with drawings and scribbles in rough pencil markings. Clippings of newspaper articles crumpled in Armin's hands, delicate to his touch, and lay with creases on the counter. Armin tipped the bag to release the last of the bag's contents hiding at the bottom. Pieces of metal hit the glass and clinked, rattling around until they stopped. Upon closer inspection, they were medals, no doubt earned by Marco's father.

  
"What are these?" Armin asked, shifting through the newspaper articles. His fingers traced across the roughly cut edges, their folds, and the dog ears on every third or so clipping.

Jean edged forward and started working his own hands across the pile of Marco's things. "... Memories." In each article he found scribbling in Marco's handwriting. On some of them the name 'Arthur Bodt' was underlined or circled, but in others it featured series of exclamation marks, question marks, and arrows pointing at particular sentences that Marco found important. "... More memories."

"Why would Marco want information on a police shooting?" Armin asked and immediately went silent. He pressed his lips together, suddenly realising what he said. The regret and fear of potentially overstepping a line worried his features. "Sorry."

Jean shrugged, pausing on one particular photo of Arthur Bodt in uniform. He looked just like Jean remembered him, friendly and proud. He was everything that Marco had looked up to as a child. No wonder he had kept it with him. Everything in this pile was his motivation and fear in solid form.

The store door opened with a loud laugh and a call of joy. "Good morning, team!" Hanji waltzed into the room with a messenger bag slung over her shoulder. Her smile looked far too chipper for this time of morning, but then she had likely gotten all the sleep Jean had wanted to get. It showed in both of them.

Before either Armin or him could answer, she had the notebooks in her hands, flipping through them with eager curiosity. "Where did you get these?" The door slowly swung back to closed behind her.

"They were Marco's." Jean spat out. His hand shot out to pull the notebook out of her hand. Part of him wanted to protect whatever secrets Hanji was flipping through so casually. It felt intrusive to look through his things. So many of them seemed dedicated to his father, so full of reminiscence and hope.

Hanji nodded and tugged the book to her chest. "That would make sense." She insisted on reading through the pages anyway. Her eyes behind her glasses opened wider in interest, her eyebrows rose in curiosity, and her lips pursed in comprehension. "Oh..." Whatever smile had been in her features, however small, melted away into a frown.

Jean gulped and his curiosity pushed his steps forward. He didn't know if he wanted to read what Hanji was absorbing from the pages. In the end, he decided that his feelings didn't matter if it was something Marco thought important enough to write down.

Hanji glanced at him with a turn of her head and placed the notebook down before both of them. "This is about his father."

Jean read over the page, letting his curiosity push him where his courage would not. There were notes of his father's death on the job. Not much new given what Jean already knew, but on the page beside it were headlines from the jewellery thief bust Marco's father had been involved with years ago. Jean hunched then relaxed his shoulders. He didn't know what he was supposed to do with his body when reading something like this.

"And this..." Hanji continued, to Jean's surprise. He hadn't known she was merely pausing to let Jean read. "This looks familiar." A kind of spirit sprung to his life on her face. It was almost chilling to see the smile her lips formed.

"What's got you so amused?" Levi snorted. The tone sounded less playful than Levi likely intended. He sauntered over with a squint to his eyes. When he joined them and began reading over the notebook, his body froze. His mouth opened and shut itself again. Hanji tilted her head and watched him closely. Her hands swiped across the page to cover the jewel thief article he was staring at.

His head flicked upwards as if freed by some intangible force. "I'll leave you to it." Not once did he make eye contact with anyone when he left. Perhaps he was too focused on making his footsteps as quiet as possible and retreating toward Erwin's office.

"What's his problem?" Jean asked in a hush. Levi seemed the least likely person to be affected by Marco's notes or an old newspaper clipping. Hanji, however, didn't appear the least bit fazed by Levi’s reaction, or lack thereof.

A pointed smile was all she could answer with at first. Once the door closed behind Levi, she removed her hand from the article. "Levi was one of them." She raised her index finger to tap on the title twice.

"The jewel thieves?" Jean asked, trying to remember exactly the way he had heard it so many years ago. He learned forward to read the name of publication: October 8th 2009. Mr. Bodt had been involved with them seven years before the date printed on the clipping, but _that_ date was only a week before he died. He stewed in discomfort as his muscles tensed on their own.

Hanji nodded solemnly. She pursed her lips in thought. "They were an organised group. Worked in diamonds." Armin propped his elbows on the glass and leaned in further like Hanji might grow quiet any minute. "It's how Levi knows his stuff."

Armin peered nervously towards the back of the store. "So he's a criminal?" Satisfied that he wouldn't be overheard, he turned back to meet Hanji's eyes. She immediately shook her head in soft dismissal. Armin let his shoulders relax at the news.

"If you want to call him that, I guess he was." Hanji slapped the book shut before Jean could read any more. She had decided that was all they needed to know and added it back to the collection. Her eyes directed Jean to pack up Marco's things off the glass cabinet. "He was never charged or convicted."

"Why?" Jean asked immediately. As far as he knew, Marco's dad had caught the thieves. Marco had once mentioned one of them had been good with a knife. Though Jean couldn't be sure, he wondered if Levi might have been that man. He kept his thoughts to himself and worked Marco's things back into the bag like memories to be forgotten, or saved for later.

A knock on the front door interrupted them. It drew all of their attention to it, heads all turned in unison. Sasha and Connie stood impatiently by the door. Sasha tapped on the glass in an irregular rhythm while Connie pressed his forehead against the glass and mouthed obscenities for his own amusement.

"Armin, could you let them in, please?" Hanji used her 'boss' tone without a beat. She had a way of changing so quickly from friendly to professional that it always took Jean a second to catch up and realise circumstances had changed. "As for why..." Her eyes settled back on Jean, her tone different again. "Erwin hired him." She finished by shooing him back to his duties before handing off orders to the rest of them.  
  
Jean returned to his desk with a knot in his forehead and tucked Marco's things nicely in the empty shelf above his desk. He placed the bag there gently, patting it flat so no more pages would bend on his watch. He had learned more than enough information for one day.

* * *

Mid-June was soon upon him. The warmer weather made the journey to Marco's grave more pleasant than he expected. It fulfilled his hopes that at least some days Marco got to see the sunshine, even if Jean couldn't see him in that moment. He knew Marco was there, probably teary, probably smiling, and that was all that mattered.

Luca brought along small little gift boxes decorated in ribbon. Each one was completely empty and designed to decorate the foot of the gravestone, Luca explained. He thought Marco deserved to have something more colourful near him on his actual birthday. The whole visit was at Luca’s insistence.

Jean took to showing off Mr. Bodt's medals, making up stories as to how he probably earned them. His favourite was the one about saving an old lady from a river because she'd mistakenly dived in after her dog. While he couldn't hear or see Marco, Luca's chucklings were more than enough to know the story was worth it. He placed them in Luca's hands and insisted that his family keep them. He wasn't about to keep something he didn't deserve to have in his possession.

When they returned to the Bodt home as the sun set, they treated themselves to a birthday cake in Marco's honour. Made of chocolate, cookies, and cream, the cake melded all of Marco's favourites into one and it was Jean's honour to blow out the one solitary candle sitting atop it. Everything seemed so comforting, so natural. Much to Jean's delight, it was the most he had seen Rosa smile in a long time.

Despite the frivolities, all Jean hoped to do was see Marco again. He wanted to be close enough to see him, to hear his voice, and maybe, if he were lucky, manage to touch him once again. Before Jean knew it, the end of the month came, and along with it the new moon.

He left earlier than usual this time, and much more refreshed than any other. The certainty of when to visit agreed with him, washing away the stress of multiple visits at different times in his desperation to find just the right moment Marco would be there.

Dark clouds loomed above in the sky like a threat. The winds whipped up around him like howls, licking at his clothes as they passed. Jean paid them no mind. Rain or shine, he wouldn't miss this for the world. Marco deserved that much.

Grey hung over Marco's grave when he approached. In place of the usual cricket song came the rumbling of thunder. It growled as if frustrated by the world in general. Jean tried to dismiss it by picturing a large frustrated cat in the sky. The image amused him enough to relax him.

Jean touched Marco's headstone gingerly. He'd come to notice a pattern whenever he did. Rather than wait to find out, he let his hand rest upon the stone, impatient, wanting to say hello all over again. To his surprise, his impatience was rewarded by a wisp of white by his hand. 

Like every time before, specks swirled and circled each other, growing and forming into the semblance of form Jean knew so well. Today they all seemed brighter. Maybe it was Jean's eyes or maybe it was the weather, but something about his specks glowed whiter or brighter with just the tiniest hint of blue.

  
"I like my presents," Marco said as soon as his visage had formed. His eyes darted to the shiny boxes down by his feet. A smile flickered into being on his face. His eyes seemed to shine like one of the specks that made him.

Jean chuckled and let himself sink down into the grass. "I didn't try very hard. I've done better." A rumbling of thunder spread out around them as if Jean himself had set it going. The faintest flash of lightning stuck out to him in the corner of his eye.

Marco crossed his arms, gazing up at the dark sky in thought. "I really could have used some new clothes." With a cheeky smile he looked over the navy blue of his uniform, appearing just the way Jean had last seen it, then unfolded his arms to brush across its fabric.

Through his smirk, Jean responded, "I thought you were making a fashion statement. I wasn't going to say anything." The laughter that followed from Marco encouraged his smile to grow. 

"So what's new with you?” His laughter sung through his question. He fiddled with his fingers, sending a small shiver through them with every wave. Separate white specks floated and circled around his hand.

Jean shrugged his shoulders. There was little news to tell with such a short time between now and two weeks ago, then the two weeks before that. "Luca brought me some of your things." The memory of Luca turning up in the early morning worked its way through his mind, as did the article on the jewel thieves that Marco kept.

“My things?” Marco’s hand and the floating specks stopped. His eyes locked with Jean’s and his eyebrows rose. Despite the surprise on his face, Jean could tell there was much more behind those eyes than Marco let on. Jean had known him too long to be fooled by feigned ignorance.

Wringing his wrists, Jean stalled for time. Staring at the grass blowing in the wind from the approaching storm calmed his nerves. He took in a breath for courage. “Stuff you kept at the academy. Stuff about your dad and his work.”

“Oh.” Marco’s back straightened. His fingers started wiggling across his knee. The tips of his fingers on his right hand turned white, separating into tiny specks that worked their way around the edge of his nails. “That was just a curiosity project of mine.”

“Four notebooks is a curiosity project?” Jean laughed away the heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach. There were things he needed to know, and each of them sat in his mind uncomfortably. “That’s a lot of work.”

Marco avoided his eyes. “I needed to know more about him.” When he looked up again, his eyes looked glassy, as glassy as an apparition’s eyes could look. The specks around his fingers continued to swirl. “I wanted to know more about my father. About how he...”

Jean nodded in short bursts, confirming for himself that was all he needed to hear and shaking away the worries that had claimed him. The one that remained, stubborn as ever, leaked from him before he could let go. “What do _you_ remember?”

“Of…?” Marco’s voice faded away. They still understood each other without further words. Jean wanted to know what happened that night. He knew so little, knew no one else to ask, and as much as he had hesitated, _still_ hesitated, Marco was the most likely to know the truth.

Marco’s chest mimed a breath. Its silence made the action mechanical and inhuman. His eyes slowly crept up from his hands to Jean’s face. When their eyes met, Marco muttered, unsure of how to say them. “Annie was there.” The first words he managed were not what Jean expected.

“Of course she was,” Jean reassured, despite his suspicions. He reached out his right hand to provide whatever comfort he could, but his hand paused above Marco’s knee. It was as close as he was willing to attempt, just in case the other night had been pure luck.

Annie had told him that she had found Marco, showed him that she had taken Marco’s ring. He fiddled with it on his left hand. Its smooth metal over his skin felt comforting in contrast to the thoughts of Marco’s last moments constructing themselves in his mind. He had seen her as she had seen him. He needed to know more, but didn’t know where to start.

“I thought about you,” Marco offered, placing his hand just above Jean’s. It hovered, fingertips still glowing white. A tingle worked its way across the top of Jean’s hand. The gesture felt soothing despite the distance between them. He could feel part of Marco, whatever exactly that was, and it was pleasant.

Jean’s chest grew tight at Marco’s words. He searched silently through Marco’s eyes. All he found there was truth. He wasn’t sure what hurt him more: the look in Marco’s eyes, so relieved to be here now, or the image of Marco thinking of him when the worst was upon him. Jean breathed sharply, drawing as much air into his lungs as possible.

Marco went to squeeze his hand. The tingling increased until Marco’s fingers drew too close and the white tips separated further up his fingers, bending back away from Jean’s hand. Instinctively he drew his hand back to its hovering position. They shared a look and a frown.

“It hurt.” Marco focussed on his fingers, circling them above Jean’s hand. His eyes glanced up sheepishly to Jean’s face before letting his own drop to the distance between their fingers. The white glow had begun to work its way up his arm. The specks separated and curled back, swirling and twirling, and white specks seemed to withdraw up his arm. His voice grew quieter. “There was sudden pain, and next I knew I was lying there in the dark.” Half of his arm disappeared up to his shoulders, white specks withdrawn into the rest but no brighter than before. The hand that had hovered on Jean’s was gone.

Jean felt as if his breathing had stopped, like a heavy weight was compressing his chest. His fingers clenched into fists on his knees, digging into his skin. His mouth grew dry and he wished he could take back his question, but now he knew a little more than he did before. “Sorry.” He wasn’t sure if his apology was for him or for Marco. “I didn’t mean to…”

“Jean,” he whispered, voice soft and gentle. When Jean’s eyes tried to meet Marco’s again, the right side of his face had begun separate into specks too, withdrawing away from the side and leaving a gaping hole of nothingness. His right eye, his right cheek and the right side of his forehead were gone, almost half of his face was gone. His mouth, however, remained intact. “It’s okay. You should know.” The eye that remained looked clear and shiny with threatening tears.

Jean didn’t know what to say or what to ask next. Whether from fear or curiosity, words ran out of his mouth before he could stop the thoughts rattling around in his mind. “What happened? Do you know who…?” Jean gulped before he could do more damage. He had probably said too much already to ruin their happy reunion.

Marco leaned forward. The sound of a breath seemed to come forward but no air with it. The storm approaching them grew louder, threatening rain with the lightest patter of drops. “Same thing as my father.” His voice was sad but still he laughed, empty of joy. His head turned to nod towards his arm, spare hand gesturing to his face. “Two shots. All I remember is the gun.”

Jean bit his lip. Drops of rain began to fall on his cheek like heaven above had opened. They tapped across Marco, sending waves through his form like rain upon a pond. Specks seemed to rise up into the air like smoke. Mesmerised by the display, Jean simply nodded.

“I don't know why I'm still here.” His voice trembled. Like the small ripples of white on his shoulders, there were tremors in it, distinct but not permanent. He tilted his head back to stare up at the rain. “You should probably go home, Jean. There's a storm coming.” The specks twirled from his ragged edges, weaving out to make him whole again.

“I'm not going anywhere.” Jean leaned back and crossed his arms. Rain was little more than an inconvenience as far as Jean was concerned. Choosing between staying and leaving for comfort was an easy choice for him. He was determined to stay.

Marco clicked his tongue. His cheek formed back into glowing white again, color starting to spread up his cheekbone. “Now's not the time to be stubborn, Jean.”

Growling under his breath, Jean disagreed. This was his choice and he'd commit to it. “If you think I'm leaving you alone, today of all days, because of a storm, you're dead wrong.”

Marco lips pursed and his eyes narrowed. Jean realised momentarily what he had said and let go a series of blubbering sounds, hand out in defence of his vocabulary. Marco just watched, amused, and chuckled with his eyes closed, face now fully formed and full of colour.

“I didn't know you felt that way,” Marco ribbed, clutching his chest in mock offence. His smirk lit his face more than any glow from the specks that comprised him or the faint orange of streetlights ever could.

“That's not fair!” Jean pouted. Marco's teasing had always involved poking fun at things he’d said when Marco was amused by them. Both of them knew that Jean enjoyed it, though he would never admit it aloud.

Marco shrugged. He could always feign innocence so easily if it suited him. Just like old times, Jean got the brunt of it. “You said it.”

Ignoring him, Jean declared, “I'm staying.” With a huff he moved back and lay back on the grass, legs and arms sprawled out. He wiggled as if he was trying to worm his way into the soil. All it did was rub his hair into the dirt and his arms against the grass.

“Here lies Jean Kirschtein,” Marco said slowly and dramatically with a great big smirk on his face. He shuffled up beside Jean and raised one eyebrow at the look Jean gave back to him. Chuckling to himself, he laid down beside Jean, resting his head upon his hands.

Jean shook his head and glared in Marco’s direction, unimpressed. “Marco,” Jean growled, signalling his disapproval. It sounded like a warning, just as he had intended. He hoped that his stare looked just as displeased at Marco’s sense of humour as he felt.

With another laugh, Marco rolled onto his back and ruffled his hair. “He was _so_ young.” His tease grew more exaggerated as he emphasised every word like a bad actor in a play. He swept the back of his hand across his forehead. “His _stubbornness_ got him in the _end_.”

“That's not funny.” His eyes stared blankly into Marco’s. All of the annoyance formed into the daggers in his eyes and the clench in his jaw.

Marco stretched his arms up into the air and watched his fingers above him. Each bent and twitched like they tested the way each drop onto his form still rippled and turned into steaming vapour in the air. His eyes stared up at the black clouds above them. “Neither is you lying in a storm. It's not safe.” He laced his hands together and rested them behind his head again.

Sighing, Jean rolled to face the sky as well. Raindrops tickled his face, hitting and dripping down his cheeks like fresh, cool tears. His pout dissolved into a self-satisfied smile despite the rain growing heavier with every second. “We should dance.”

Marco didn't bother to turn to him this time. Instead he took to yelling at the clouds instead. “Are you nuts?”

From the corner of his eye, Jean caught the perplexed look on Marco's face and grinned wider. “Well, I’m going to look like I’m dancing alone.” In answer the sky opened up and thunder roared in applause. Jean raised his voice even louder to compete with the rumble. “Might as well add to the aesthetic by doing it in the rain.”

Jean pushed himself up to his feet and gestured for Marco to join him. He waited, dusting off some of the dirt and grass sticking to his wet skin. Soaked in the rain pouring down, his clothes stuck to his arms and legs. The thundering above was joined by another flash of lightning arcing across the sky.

Standing next to Jean, Marco raised his hands uncertainly. His smile twitched nervously, moving his arms up to Jean, unsure how close he could get or where he should put them. Jean stepped forward and edged as close as he could. Their hands brushed together out to their sides, held close enough to tingle. Marco’s eyes looked so warm and alive when Jean was almost nose to nose. While he placed his other hand near Marco’s back, Marco lay his over Jean’s arm. Even with Marco there, Jean still chuckled to himself at how much it still felt like miming. He resisted every urge in his body to bring himself closer.

Their first few steps were awkward. They hadn’t waltzed in years, though they’d never been that good at it to begin with. One, two, three, the waltz stumbled together. Each of them relied on their timing, on keeping themselves close together, without touch to guide them. Flashes of lightning above sent Jean’s heart racing, yet it couldn’t tear his focus away from their dance.

Marco pulled a face, eyes darting down to his feet like he was simply watching Jean take the lead. Despite all of his physical training, dancing had never been Marco’s strong suit. His nervousness came out in quiet laughter. “Next you’re going to ask me to sing.”

“Now you’ve ruined the surprise.” Jean hummed a tune that came to him. He'd never been particularly good with remembering songs or staying in tune, but this would do. With a put on air of arrogance, he raised his chin proudly, leading Marco step by step through the waltz.

Marco couldn’t keep eye contact and looked anywhere but the smug look on Jean’s face. A shimmer of colour worked its way through Marco’s cheeks. As strange as it appeared, it looked so mundanely human. “You’re embarrassing me.”

“What? With all those shadows staring at you?” Jean gestured around them at the great expanse of darkness. He leaned closer, testing the boundaries of Marco’s form, and muttered, “It’s about time I took my turn.”

Standing this close, almost cheek to cheek, felt like warm sunlight on Jean’s face. He couldn't tell if it was from the near contact or the heat rising up his neck, but he knew for certain that Marco being this close was to blame.

The storm crackled above them. Lightning sparked across the sky. For a brief second, it lit up the cemetery around them as if it were day. For all the sounds around them both, there was little Jean could hear but his own humming and Marco’s own nervous hums.

In his pocket, his phone began to vibrate. Jean sighed and grunted. They had finally found a rhythm that was working, and here was an unwelcome interruption to put a stop to it. Marco took it upon himself to step back and nod for Jean to answer it. Reluctantly, Jean pulled it from his pocket and frowned at the private number.

He answered it uncertainly. There wasn’t anyone that sprung to mind that who would call him at this hour. Perhaps it was to do with the storm he was standing in. “Hello?” There was nothing on the other end at first, only silence.

The voice that answered him was soft and stern and strangely familiar. If he could see their face he’d be able to place it. There were no visuals to help him here. He focussed all his effort into trying to make them out through the sound of their voice. All it said was, “We need to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so glad to finally have this chapter finished. It's been several months in the making. Work, in particular, delayed it by a good three months. I hope it was worth the wait!
> 
> \---
> 
> If you liked this and want to share it, you can find the Tumblr post [here](http://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/post/140267314582/see-you-when-you-get-here-chapter-7-the).
> 
> I would love to hear your feedback here or you can also find me on [Tumblr](https://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](http://twitter.com/foxberryblue) or on my writing only blog [Foxberry Writes](http://foxberrywrites.tumblr.com/).


	8. The Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ _Taking Mikasa’s lead, Armin took the opportunity to question Jean. “You've been spending your nights there, haven't you?” Where Mikasa’s eyes were sharp, Armin’s eyes were piercing, gazing through Jean with their ardent blue and seeming to tug at the truth sitting on Jean’s tongue. He had wanted to tell Armin everything from the beginning but Jean doubted he would get far without adding more worries to the pile. A skeptical man was the hardest to convince._ ]

**\- Five years ago -**

Jean had never felt uncertain to enter Marco’s bedroom until today. He stood with his hand outreached for the doorknob, listening and hoping that Marco would come open the door and invite him in. But Marco didn’t open the door. Jean’s hand held onto the doorknob with a light shake to his fingers. He wasn’t sure how he managed to hold his hand up but it stayed there, hovering in Jean’s unwillingness to see what awaited him inside.

His lungs filled out of habit and exhaled in a long, drawn-out sigh. Whatever he could do to justify his wait, he tried, but he soon forced out another sigh and his mind ran out of excuses. With a gulp, Jean turned the doorknob and edged his way inside. Not a word left his mouth when he took the step in. The door closed behind with him a quiet click.

Marco’s room looked oddly clean. His bed was made, his cupboard -- while open -- was arranged perfectly, and the carpet below was spotless. Jean suspected cleaning had been all Marco had been doing up here for the past hour or so.

Jean had wondered how Marco was coping while preparing for his father’s funeral. The thought had passed through his mind at least five times on his walk over. He wondered if Marco was already dressed or sitting on the edge of his bed staring at the floor, whether Marco was crying or simply biting his lip like he did when he held everything back. Jean felt like he should be more sad than worried, but it seemed wrong to let himself feel before he saw how Marco actually was.

By the open window Marco stood, staring out at the front garden like it held all the answers he was looking for. He didn’t move when Jean approached. His shoulders were still relaxed, almost defeated, with all of his energy somehow draining out through his dress shoes. Jean wasn’t sure of the person he saw before him and Jean gritted his teeth in preparation.

The first movement Marco made was slow. He shrugged self-consciously, suddenly aware of Jean’s presence. Marco turned around, shoulders high and tense, his gaze hovering between his tie and his shoes. The suit fit him perfectly, but despite all of Jean’s hopes to have seen Marco dressed this way, Jean had never thought it would be like this.

Hands shaking and slow, Marco gestured over his lapels, “Do I look okay?” His voice was wavering, lips twitching as his eyes began to water, waiting to cry. “I don’t think I did the tie well. I don’t think it works. Should I wear one? It’d be wrong if I didn’t, wouldn’t it?”

Jean stepped forward to place a firm hand on his shoulder and hushed Marco’s mumblings into silence. “You look fine, okay?” He hoped his voice sounded as reassuring as he wanted it to be, that his own tone wasn't trembling at the swell of emotions within him.

“I never thought this would be when I wore my first suit.” Marco’s eyebrows drew together, distorting his features once again in a way that made Jean’s chest tighten. Everything about this was hard to watch, but he had to be here for him.

“Funerals kind of suck,” Jean offered with a shrug and a tilt of his head. Not that Jean knew anything about funerals. This would be his first, and for a man that had been the closest to a father figure that he could find. None of his feelings compared to Marco’s, though, and watching the way he pressed his lips together to suppress the tears hurt more than Jean could bear.

Marco laughed a short chuckle like he had no air left in his lungs and agreed softly, “Yeah…”

“Here, let’s make sure you look great, yeah?” Jean adjusted Marco’s lapels until they fit right. His fingers fiddled with the edges of the tie -- mostly for show -- then he brushed off the last pieces of fluff that sat on Marco’s shoulders with a confident smile.

Marco nodded and smiled, tearing up again with what Jean hoped was gratitude. The silence that had held between them since his father’s passing had become almost unbearable. The brightness in Marco had dimmed the day the news arrived. His hero, his own father, had died in action, on the job, like they had feared he might.

“I’m sorry.” His eyes were glassy with tears when he looked back up at Jean. His hands held each other in front of him, clenching and unclenching in a nervous beat.

Jean felt his shoulders slump as concern worked its way into his chest. “What for?”

Taken aback by Jean’s question, Marco searched for an answer, and when he found none, his voice cracked and the tears spilled. “I’m a mess…?”

“What?” Jean placed both hands on Marco’s shoulders and met the warmth in Marco’s brown eyes once again. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve had to help me do so much… I can’t even focus and I’m just…” Marco blinked hard. A wet line drew itself down across Marco’s cheek. The next few followed together as Marco’s face reddened and contorted with lines of worry and shame. “You’ve just… I’m sorry.” He bent his head forward as if trying to hide the shame he felt. It only succeeded at tugging at Jean’s heartstrings more.

Jean parted his mouth in wordless surprise, gripping Marco’s shoulders with the hope that it felt comforting. “No, no, no. It’s fine, okay?” He slid his hands over the tense muscles in Marco’s neck and cupped his face with a gentleness Jean suddenly found within himself. After a quick, determined gulp, Jean tried to reassure him further with the wavy sound of oncoming tears in his own voice. “I’m helping because I want to help.”

Marco checked up briefly to measure the truth in Jean’s words with the look on his face. Raising his head up again, tears now making their way down his neck, he pressed his forehead against Jean’s. Marco’s low hum resonated through Jean’s fingers but it hit somewhere deeper in Jean’s chest. He repeated himself for Marco’s sake, “I want to help. I want to be here.”

He felt a tug against his hands. When he opened his eyes, he found Marco staring back at him with a kind of assessment he hadn’t seen before. The tears kept falling, for all the efforts Jean made. For a moment Jean’s own face faltered at the broken boy he saw before him. His chest felt tighter, his breathing rough, and somewhere in all of the confusion of grief, his hands covered in tears, and the look in Marco’s eyes, his heart ached.

With only the feeling in his chest and not a thought in his mind, Jean tugged Marco’s face to his. Their lips met with the taste of tears, desperate to find meaning in something beyond themselves. The sound of urgent gasps for air filled Marco’s bedroom between the sounds of loud, wet kisses as the walls seemed to disappear. The two of them stood alone in the world with all their thoughts and focus on each other. Nothing could touch them then.

Marco hummed for both of them, his hands snaking behind Jean’s back and pulling him closer. His hold was firm, needy, and gentle, prompting Jean to raise his thumbs to stroke away the tears on Marco’s face in soft, careful circles. Marco pushed back against him, breathing roughly every time their lips parted, hands grasping tighter.

For all the times they had kissed before, it had never felt like this. The quick pecks and shy kisses as kids didn’t feel as warm as this did to Jean. The cheeky way they had touched lips in the darkest of nights as they grew into teenagers, Jean not sure if he was awake or if he was dreaming, felt different. With his hands on Marco’s neck, Jean wondered how long he had been waiting for this.

Marco stopped with a series of sniffles and gasps, pulling away and letting his hands trace down to Jean’s hips. They remained there, holding on with a firm grip as if too afraid to let go. Staring into Jean’s eyes, Marco forced a genuine smile. He meant it, but his crying had set a shake to his voice and lips. It was as if he had forgotten how to speak for a moment, but for now Marco’s tears had stopped.

Returning the smile, Jean let his hands lie on Marco’s shoulders. He gripped them lightly to say all the things he felt but didn’t know how to say. These quiet moments were the ones Jean appreciated the most. There was no noise to bug him, no others to distract him, and all he could hear was Marco, even if it was mostly the ragged breaths he took in through his mouth.

With another smile, Marco tilted his head and cast his eyes over Jean with a sigh. His expression looked pensive and relieved. It had softened and calmed from the tears to something else entirely. Before Jean could give it much thought, Marco’s thick arms tugged him closer into a tight hug. Jean’s hands dropped down to return it while Marco’s arms squeezed away the breath in Jean’s lungs, but not a bit of him minded. The closer Jean could be to Marco, the better.

Marco wrapped his arms around him further and nuzzled into Jean’s neck. Resting his face there, he pressed his lips against the weak spot on Jean’s neck and whispered, “What would I do without you?”

Shivering at the delicate touch and the neediness in Marco’s voice, Jean held him closer and rubbed his hands up the back of Marco’s shirt. There were so many things he could imagine doing, so many ways to forget what today meant. None of them, as much as Jean wanted them, would have felt right at this very moment. Even if Marco seemed to be hinting at wanting to forget the world with a stroke of his hand and the look in his eyes. Jean had to be the strong one now.

Jean whispered back into the soft feel of Marco’s hair against his cheek, “Be stuck in your room all day while the rest of us wait for you, probably.” Laughter didn’t seem right in the empty feeling in the room but it forced its way from Jean’s chest in his nervousness. No doubt everyone was waiting on them now.

Marco pulled back, releasing Jean from his grasp, and quirked his lips into an amused, guilty smile. “That wouldn’t be so bad.” He began to tug at and play with his suit, patting it down and tidying it again. Jean reached out to stop Marco from fretting over his clothes. It was the smallest detail in a larger day awaiting him.

Shaking his head, Jean took Marco’s hands into his. “We’ve got to go, Marco.” He looked concerned but hopeful, trying his best to be comforting, supportive, whatever it was that Marco needed right now. He hoped that his lacklustre effort was working.

Down the hall, he knew Rosa waited with Luca in tow. Both of them were more quiet than usual and busied themselves with the making of coffee, despite the array of mugs that had adorned the kitchen table. Jean offered to fetch Marco himself after time had passed. Marco didn’t make the difficult task of pulling him away any easier.

“Maybe we could just stay here?” Marco asked, raising his voice with a hopeful tint to his pitch. His shoulders shrugged for him and lightened the serious nature of his request. Jean could already tell he was looking for a way out, for someone to tell him it was okay to be afraid, to hide away and pretend the world wasn’t still turning when he had just lost the biggest part of his.

Jean had to keep himself to his task. “You and I are going to walk out of here, down the hallway, and out the door.” He tugged at Marco’s hands to strengthen his own resolve. This was the right thing to do, he told himself repeatedly.

“I could make it up to you.” Ever so faintly, Marco’s fingers ran over Jean’s thighs, tracing around Jean’s crotch, his desire to stay put suddenly emboldening him. Jean gulped, willing his body to not betray him, because the idea of having Marco to himself was so incredibly tempting. “It’ll help me.”

With a huff, Jean resisted. “You’re making this really unfair.” His voice choked and squeaked. The ravages of puberty would forever haunt Jean in the way it made the serious, emotionally tinted things he said suddenly cripplingly embarrassing. He could not wait for his voice to finally settle and drop to where it was meant to be. One day he might be able to say those words without sounding so compromised, without revealing the exact truth that he was trying to hide.

Pleasantly, Marco ignored it all. It was just another sound amongst the several running around in his head. “I just don’t know if I can do it.” He retreated away in both body and mind as tears threatened to roll down his cheeks again.

Jean’s hands gripped on tighter. “I’ll be there,” he reassured, rubbing over Marco’s hands, feeling the rough, dry skin, the warmth, the way they instinctively grabbed for him when Jean held them like this. Jean smiled to know that even when Marco wasn’t paying attention that closely, a small part of him still wanted to hold on to him.

When Marco didn’t answer, Jean’s voice squeaked again. He gritted his teeth and forced his eyes closed. His heartbeat sounded too loud in a room this small. “If it makes any difference, I could… um… help you… later.”

Marco kissed his forehead with a chuckle. Although dismissive, it washed away the worries burdening Jean’s mind. “Later.” Leaning down, he planted a kiss on Jean’s lips. Sweet and soft as it had always been, with just the hint of something else behind it. Jean could’ve sworn it tasted a bit different.

Their fingers intertwined, grabbing awkwardly until their hands slotted together. Somehow they always seemed to find their way without looking, the sensation so familiar that feeling around for the right fit felt right in the end. Jean wouldn’t have it any other way.

Marco hummed in the back of his throat, staring off at the closed door like it might bite him if he walked near. “I’ve always wanted to be like my dad…” Jean could feel the clamminess in Marco’s hands as he heard the sadness in his voice. As uncomfortable as it made him on both counts, he clung tighter onto Marco.

“He was a good man,” Jean offered, searching over Marco’s face. He didn’t seem to notice Jean’s gaze, or completely ignored the way Jean stared. His focus didn’t falter for a moment, eyes languishing over the door.

“Mama used to say that his job was dangerous,” Marco continued, tone musing and disinterested. His brows drew together like he was trying to push the thoughts out of his mind. The tighter they drew, the louder and slower his breathing grew. A shivering breath betrayed his composure. “I always thought he’d be safe.”

Jean had always believed cops were safe in their jobs, but now he wasn’t so sure. “Was he ever really?” A man like Arthur stood so tall and straight, patting Jean and Marco’s backs with a sense of pride as they grew up, that Jean could never have imagined him to fall. It didn’t feel right to be standing here, waiting for Marco to be ready for his father’s funeral.

A thoughtful expression came across Marco's face. He chewed at his lip like worrying at the skin might bring the words out from the tip of his tongue. “You know… he started coming home later and later.” Marco’s hands fidgeted in Jean’s, wriggling away to rub at the insecurities apparently under the skin of his left arm. “Stayed up late at home, circling things in red pen, and scribbling words all over the place.”

Jean tried his best to not let the worry show on his face. Marco had the ability to see everything, but fortunately for him, Marco’s eyes avoided his right then. Jean could look as worried as he felt while he hid it with a calm tone. “He was just busy working.” It felt like a good enough suggestion, but Jean didn’t remember Mr. Bodt ever feeling stressed about work.

“He was always busy working though. Always.” Marco withdrew his hands completely to cross his arms and press them tightly to his chest. Lips twitching into a concerned pout, he paused, finally making eye contact with Jean again, adding, “He’d not brought it home before. Mama had made him promise not to. Home was for us.”

Jean’s hands found themselves on Marco’s arms. “It still is.” Rubbing up and down, he felt comfort in the gesture, hoping the feeling would transfer, that the action meant something, that his hands would be as reassuring as his words.

Marco nodded. A deep breath filled his lungs and he answered in agreement, “Mmmm.” Despite his tone, nothing else in Marco seemed satisfied with the conclusions for his father’s behaviour. “I just never really thought anything of it.” His fingers clawed into his skin; a nervous tic Jean observed but said nothing of.

“What do you mean?” Jean asked, trying to distract from the thoughts in Marco’s mind. It seemed odd to think of Mr. Bodt hidden away in his office and working on secret business. He used to tell stories of his latest cases. Each one was specifically tailored for the ears of children, despite Jean’s protests, but they both loved the stories all the same. Nothing had ever compared since.

Shaking his head, Marco dismissed it. “Oh, it doesn’t matter.” His fingers worked across his arms again, massaging at the muscle as he hummed. With each movement he pressed deeper as if whatever he was trying to work away in his skin refused to move. Something came across his face but before Jean could really see it, Marco circled an arm around his middle to pull him close.

Jean found his chin against Marco’s shoulder and Marco’s against his. They stayed still for a while like that, chests pressed together until Jean’s arms returned the gesture and wrapped around Marco. Turning his head towards Marco’s neck, all he could smell was fresh soap and the slightest hint of sandalwood, the kind Jean always hated but found himself liking the more Marco insisted on wearing it.

Jean’s hands buried into Marco’s hair. His fingers tangled in its soft kinks, scratching his nails across his scalp. Marco sighed and let his shoulders relax. Pulling him closer, Jean felt this was the right thing to do. There was only so much Jean could say with words, and thankfully Marco seemed to understand Jean without them.

Marco’s voice was barely more than a whisper when he spoke into Jean’s shoulder. “Now he’ll never be proud of me.” His thoughts played out against Jean's skin in small puffs of air. Jean couldn't be sure if they were truly meant for him or if Marco just wanted to speak out the thoughts swimming in his mind.

“But he’s always been proud of you," Jean blurted almost defensively, feeling the need to counter Marco's concerns with what he considered to be the truth. Mr. Bodt had always been proud of his children. His passing didn't change that. Jean had to be sure that Marco knew that, and that Jean believed in him too. “ _I’m_ proud of you.”

Marco shrugged when Jean hugged tighter around him. His face stared straight over Jean's shoulder, no part of him moving, locked in his position. “I’ve just had such a clear… line of sight…” His voice faded away through a series of hitches and dips in his breath. After what seemed like forever to Jean, Marco finally finished his thought. “Now it’s all blurry.”

“Marco…” An exhale left Jean's lips. Unsure of whether to let go and see the pain on Marco's face or just hold him close and feel his pain instead, Jean remained still. He listened to the way Marco's chest rose and fell, how it seemed to echo off the walls.

The steadiness of Marco’s breathing gave way to short, shaking huffs. “What am I supposed to do now?” His voice cracked, his throat closing on him like he was about to cry again. “Without him?” He buried his head into Jean's shoulder to hide his tears.

Not able to take it any longer, Jean pulled Marco away from him, taking him by the shoulders and letting his stomach tighten when he saw the lost look on Marco's face. “Do what it is you want to do," Jean insisted fiercely. Seeing Marco breaking like this was getting the better of him. He didn't know how much longer he could stand it.

Marco smiled weakly, searching across Jean's face and shoulders for the memories in his mind. “I wanted to make him proud.” When he found them with his blank stare, he peered down his lapels and lost his smile. “I wanted him to smile when I was just like him.”

Marco had always wanted to make his father proud and nothing in Jean could blame him for that. His shoulders tensed when he realised what he wanted to say, and although he was unsure of how Marco would take it, he held firm and said it anyway. "You are just like him though, and you will make him proud regardless of what you do.”

Where Marco's brother Luca took after his mother, Marco had always taken after his father. He had the same stature, and took to the world like everything was there for him to observe. He had a way of knowing things just by looking with that extraordinary patience that his father had taught him. Marco could pass the day by staring out at nature in a way that Jean would never understand. He was everything his father taught him.

Marco's eyes found Jean's with a glimmer of something hopeful and something else that Jean couldn't place. His eyebrows seemed to twitch in the uncertainty that took to his features. “Will you do it with me, Jean?” There was something so sad and close to begging in his tone that Jean didn't know what to say.

“What?” he asked bluntly. Jean's own features contorted between confused and surprised. His lips opened, but they took in nothing more than air, words lost to the blankness that took over his mind. He couldn't think of a single thing that Marco might be referring to and in his nervous blinking, blushed at the thought it was something else he might be saying. He shook it away as quickly as it appeared in his mind, but the heat in his face still lingered.

Marco didn't seem to notice Jean's discomfort. Instead, he took to looking down at the shine of his shoes and rubbing his thumbs across Jean's arms. “We’ll train and get fit and by the time we finish high school we can take the exam together.” It was more statement than question, and Marco clearly hoped that Jean would be open to his suggestion. It wasn't the first time he had asked or even brought up the subject.

Immediately closing his eyes, Jean huffed through his nose, an empty laugh, when he realised his confusion and exactly what Marco was suggesting. Where Marco had always wanted to follow in his father's footsteps, become a police officer, Jean had wavered between wanting it and fearing it. There was so much work to be done, and standing here in Marco's room with the funeral ahead, Jean now knew for sure that it was not for him. “Could you imagine me as a cop though?”

A grin spread across Marco's face, a glimpse of white and humour still able to sit on that handsome face of his. “You’d look good in the uniform.” His fist punched Jean in the arm, and he quickly rubbed down the place when he realised he hit harder than he intended.

Jean immediately frowned and dropped his hands to his sides. “Oh please.” With a grimace, he reached up to swat Marco's hand away and rub the sore patch on his arm himself. Marco always tended to playfully punch him harder than he meant to. There was something innocent to it that Jean always appreciated, even if it meant he was the one who kept the bruises. They covered his skin like peculiar keepsakes for every time Jean did something that brought out an emotional reaction from Marco. There was a hint of success and a touch of memory to each one.

“That’s my line," Marco laughed, and seemed so much more radiant, some of that same old happiness still shining out from his chest like he would just glow in the dark. Jean shook his head with a genuine smile. Marco had a way of making Jean less worried about him because of how easily he seemed to bounce back and keep moving. Jean suspected he would always be the more resilient one of the two of them.

Marco continued, shrugging like it softened those broad shoulders of his. “Seriously Jean, I’ve always wanted this, but I need your help.” He had already begun to build muscle from his training, surpassing Jean in height and weight and a stack of other things Jean wondered about but hadn't seen. It had become a struggle to watch Marco become so much more attractive that even now Marco's idea of staying became all the more tempting.

“You’ve got it, but I’m not signing myself up for that," Jean declined and started making his way towards the door. He hoped the movement would bring Marco with him by putting himself out of Marco's reach. Jean suspected this was another ruse to keep them both here, talking about futures and hopes and dreams like his father didn't just pass away. Marco would give into the distraction if Jean let him. It was easier to live in memory than have memories live within you.

When he reached the door, Jean immediately put his hand to the doorknob. Although there was no need to pause, Jean didn't want to force Marco out of his room if he wasn't willing. “I’d never make the cut," he continued with their conversation. His chuckle was low and deep when the thought occurred to him. Turning his head, he slyly added with as much exaggeration as he could muster, “I know I’m an absolute stud and everything...” Jean gestured over the slimmer, weaker parts of his body like he was an exquisite specimen.

Marco snorted. He reserved those particular unpleasant laughs of his for the most unpleasant of Jean's jokes. There was a sense of victory in provoking it out of Marco when Jean knew how much he hated making that sound. It was good to see Marco laughing again, even if the shine in his eyes didn't match his smile. Within time Jean suspected it would, but there would be no rush getting there.

“ _Please_ ," Marco began, sauntering forward, drawn in by Jean's bad humour. "You could outrun me easy.” For the first time, Jean finally saw Marco wearing the suit and not the suit wearing him. Perhaps there was something good that Jean had done by entering this room; maybe they would still be okay after all the dust had settled.

Jean rolled his eyes and opened the door, gesturing for Marco to leave before him. He couldn't resist adding a “For cake, yeah.” There was no way that Jean would ever be able to best Marco in a test of strength or endurance, and certainly not in running. Marco trained so much in his spare time that he had begun dragging Jean along with him. The only effect such training had on him was making him weak in the knees.

Marco successfully out of his room, Jean felt a sense of relief fall over him. If he were any happier, he might have taken Marco by the hand and dragged him to the front door with a sense of triumph. Instead he thought better of it and closed Marco's bedroom door behind him.

The walk down the corridor still felt ominous. Everyone waited outside for them and in their moments Jean had not kept track of how much time had passed, but no one was running up to hurry them yet. He would rather Marco be ready than rushed; that way it would sit easier on Jean's conscience. Expelling all of the stagnant air that seemed to be hiding in his lungs, he let out a long exhale.

“Tell me you’ll think about it." Marco caught Jean just as his shoulders relaxed. He froze like an odd deer in headlights, staring at the great brown eyes that found his. There was no more humour in Marco's voice then, having shied away as soon as they turned to the corner and found themselves near the door.

Jean pursed his lips and nodded with the smallest of smiles. He had already made up his mind when he had received the news of Mr. Bodt's passing. The sudden death of the closest figure he'd had to look up to seemed to make up his mind that this wasn't something he wanted to do anymore. He wasn't entirely sure that he had ever wanted to, either. Even now he feared for what might happen to Marco if things went as awry as they had for Mr. Bodt. Perhaps if Jean _did_ join Marco, he might be able to keep him safe. He settled on saying the only thing that he could think of. “I’ll think about it.”

 

* * *

 

**\- Present Day -**

"What?" Jean asked reflexively, the sound of the storm’s thunder fading away in the background. His mind still struggled to think of a face or name to put to the voice on the phone. Whoever she was, Jean was still so put off by her that he didn't know what to say. None of his shrugs and gestures at Marco seemed to help either. Their time was running short and this woman on the line was cutting into what precious time Jean had left. It ground against his nerves. “Talk? Who is this?”

Marco moved a step back, a faint shimmer rippling through his visage. He looked as uncomfortable as Jean felt, perhaps more so. Yet for a moment Jean thought he saw a sliver of understanding in Marco's eyes. They seemed to glow in the orange light of the streetlight or from somewhere within. Jean couldn't tell the difference anymore in the dark. Everything seemed to shine when it came to Marco.

A frustrated groan followed on the other line. Her voice became gruff and tired with him before any words, but they followed almost immediately. “Annie. Marco’s former partner. ” Jean had to stop the urge to swear at his stupidity. Of course it was her. There wouldn't be anyone else who would call, but to call now of all times was too inconvenient. Jean struggled to look past how she was interrupting Jean's moment with Marco.

A tenseness worked its way through Jean’s shoulders. “Right.” He let the words settle and found his eyes wandering back to Marco’s face. He looked confused by what he heard, but waited silently all the same. Jean knew he had nowhere else to go while Jean was on the phone, but this didn't feel right. “But you want to talk?”

“About Marco.” Her voice was blunt, answering as if she had expected his question, as if Jean should have known it was coming. He had to resist the urge to tell her off down the phone. He couldn't place why she ruffled his feathers in the way that she did, but there was something off about her. Perhaps he just still found it unpleasant to talk to her, considering everything she had already said.

He buried the feeling in his chest and smirked down the phone. “I didn’t know you were the sentimental type.” The bluntness of his tone felt right when talking to her, though Marco seemed to frown in disapproval. He had always liked her, even when she managed to bruise him in training. Jean had no idea what Marco liked so much about her from what he had seen first hand.

“I’m not," she barked back with as much energy as someone who wasn't trying to fight. Jean almost felt disappointed. Though he didn't wish for a fight, butting up against her held its own satisfaction when she reacted. Yet this time it felt different when she took a deep shaky breath and added quickly, “You have some things of his from the academy…” There was another pause. This time Jean could hear her fiddling with papers before breathing in again. “Right?”

“I do have a few things...” Jean answered, thinking aloud before he realised he may have given too much away. There didn't seem to be any reason Annie might need anything from the academy. That was the whole purpose of them mailing them to the family, so they could remove sensitive documents that might otherwise compromise investigations. Not that Marco would have anything like that in his collection. It didn't make sense. “I don’t get this, Annie.”

Marco’s face changed from the furrowed brow to wide open eyes. His posture immediately straightened, his shoulders back, his face stern, and everything about him looked all the more like a police officer in his uniform. Jean could almost swear that the blue of his uniform was brighter, that it glowed in Marco's dissatisfaction or concern. Whatever Marco was feeling right now, Jean couldn't tell, and perhaps it was better that he couldn't.

Jean tilted his head, enquiring about Marco’s reaction but not receiving anything more in response. It was better to try than to wonder in the silent darkness. Jean didn't know what time it was anymore, but he knew he didn't have time for this.

Annie's voice came through the phone with just a hint of desperation. “I think he might have something in there.” She didn't say much of anything after that. Whatever it was in Marco's books, scribbled on the pages, that she suspected might be there, she wanted it, needed it, for whatever reason. None of it sat right with Jean and he didn't know how to convey it to Marco while on the phone.

“Well that’s particularly vague.” Jean frowned and started pacing. The grass brushed by his ankles, wet against his pant legs. Somehow it felt better to move while he tried to keep the gears in his mind turning. Jean peered over at Marco, wondering what could possibly be in those notebooks and papers with the newspaper clippings and scribbles in pencil.

Annie started with a harsh tone, telling Jean that he had touched a nerve. Though it seemed that Annie had a lot of nerves, just waiting for Jean to make a misstep. “Something that I need to see. It’s just a hunch but…” She took a deep breath and shakily let it brush against the phone when she exhaled. “I need to know if it’s there.”

Jean started to relax the tension in his face. All he could do in response at first was snort down the phone. "What?" Annie was trying to get something out of him, specifically something that belonged to Marco, something he had in his possession now. He couldn't simply hand over Marco's private things to the likes of her for the sake of a hunch. “Does he have some hidden dirt on you?” Jean laughed down the phone, partly nervous, partly amused that she would be so desperate as to call him at this hour.

Annie didn’t respond. She treated Jean's ears to the sounds of the shuffling of paper, the heavy footsteps of boots on wood, and the venting of her frustration through her teeth. Jean suspected she was waiting for him to answer, despite being the one to call him and essentially make demands. The sooner he gave her the answer she wanted, the sooner he could get back to talking to Marco, being with Marco. He wasn't about to waste time on her that could be better spent.

“Look, if you’re so set on it, I can meet you after work next Friday.” The words slipped off Jean's tongue with just a hint of bile and frustration. At least after work he wouldn't need to travel far, and if this uncomfortable feeling in his gut was based on anything solid, he would have a selection of witnesses nearby. That is, if anyone stayed long enough to see anything.

Humming, Annie answered, sounding pleased with the arrangement and somewhat relieved. The tension she carried on her end of the line relaxed and Jean suspected that he had made her day given the tint of a smile in her voice. “That could work.”

It was going to have to work that way. Jean wasn't going out of his way to bring Marco's belongings -- perhaps the only things that he had left of Marco -- to Annie so she could simply take them off him. Maybe there was more to the scribbling in there than Jean originally thought. “Well it’s the best option that I have.”

Annie hummed thoughtfully to herself. Her voice softened, though it still remained breathy in his ear. “Then after work," she answered, more direct than Jean expected. There was no room to fight her conclusion.

Jean huffed down the phone, glancing apologetically Marco’s way, wanting to wrap this up and have it over with. “Do you -- right, you know where I work.” He shook his head at his own stumbling. Of course she knew where he worked. That's how she had found him in the first place, how they ended up meeting in his bedroom of all places.

“Yes” was all she said. For someone who wanted this over and done with, she was taking her time. Jean wondered if perhaps she wasn’t quite in the conversation, too busy with the paper in front of her to truly pay attention to his side of the conversation.

“You’re not expecting me to pay for dinner, are you?” The frown worked across his face. She was waiting for him to make the moves, make the decision. Hesitation on her part, on moving this forward, sat oddly in Jean's mind. She couldn't assume he would go out of his way for her, but finding somewhere comfortable to look over Marco's things seemed the best option. “I mean, I assume we’re going to go sit somewhere rather than stand awkwardly out front.”

“I have money, Jean,” she spat back. He had touched a nerve apparently. Maybe it was something in his tone.

Marco began to approach him. The concern had worked down to the specks of his fingers. Jean imagined he must look frustrated with the call and perhaps he was, but he had every right to be if Marco was in the mix.

Jean attempted to make his voice sound apologetic and innocent. He didn't try very hard. “I wasn’t saying you don’t.” He raised his hands defensively, finding himself more inside the conversation than in the silent dark with a new moon above.

Annie cleared her throat. “Bring Marco’s things with you.” She waited for Jean's answer but continued when he refused to speak. “We can sort the rest when I get there. Next Friday. 8pm. I’ll come to you.”

“Sure, I guess we can --” Jean was cut off by silence. Annie had hung up in his ear. For a moment he stood with the phone to his ear, confused and still just as frustrated. He lowered it, finally, as Marco caught his eye with one of those worried smiles of his. “She hung up.”

“Annie?” Hearing Marco's voice after that clusterfuck of a conversation was almost soothing. His face looked as concerned as Jean had expected, but even that made Jean worry for a moment. Marco knew her better than both of them. Surely he knew what she was like.

“Yeah…” Jean admitted, trying to hide his suspicions of her as best he could. The tone didn't carry through as he hoped it would. Instead, a hint of a whine dug its way into the sound and rooted itself there. Doubt was harder to hide than he thought. Marco's face seemed to contort, passing from his own confusion and suspicions to downright worry. “What’s with the face?”

Marco's gaze shied away and he turned his cheek with a shimmer and a glimmer of specks. “Nothing.” The word left his lips with considerably more than ‘nothing’ tinting it. Jean couldn't quite place where it came from or why Marco couldn't look him in the eye, but he knew -- they both did -- that it was more than nothing. Marco had never been the kind to lie. Lying did not fit him well.

“Right.” Jean averted his eyes out of instinct. The grass swayed back and forth with the wind, brushing around his shoes. Clarifying the situation seemed to be the best option. Perhaps Marco would say something then. “Annie seems to think you wrote about her in your diary or something.”

No answer followed. Marco rubbed at a place on his temple. Not a good sign. He used to do the same when Jean asked something he didn’t want to answer. The fear of possible regret ate at Jean’s nerves, but he asked Marco the question anyway. “Did you?”

“I …” Marco began, his chest rising and falling in rote. The more that Jean squinted and scrutinised Marco’s appearance, the more human he appeared. The light hit him as if he were still flesh and blood, where goosebumps still rose on his skin, where shivers still ran down his spine, where air still filled his lungs. It was hard to remember how much of what Jean saw was only one step away from an illusion.

Jean held his phone tight and let his arm drop by his side. If he could have crushed the phone in his hand from frustration or worry or both, he might have. None of this felt right. “Seriously Marco, if you wrote anything about her, I’d prefer to know before I have to see that sullen face of hers.” Trying to play it light, Jean forced a smile, but he knew it didn’t reach his eyes.

As he mirrored Jean and let his own arms fall to his side, the specks of Marco’s right hand separated, hovering in jagged collections, still present but not quite one whole. Their colour became paler and bled into the air like fabric faded in sunlight. “There’s a few things I might have written down.” Marco’s lips quirked into an awkward half-smile, more worried than happy, a nervous median between the two.

Jean had hoped for a different answer. He didn’t know how much until it hit him. “Nothing bad?” His jaw clenched and unclenched as if in preparation for fears that had not bubbled forth to the forefront of his mind. Instead, they lingered under the surface, waiting for some kind of provocation to call them out.

Marco tilted his head, his smile fading just as the colour began to fade up his right arm. His focus was too squarely pointed on Jean to notice; he, in turn, refused to point it out in fear of what might happen. The specks separated, curling and twirling in soft lazy circles up to the point of his elbow. “Not exactly.”

A promising answer wasn’t something Jean expected, but he had hoped it would have been more illuminating than the one he received. Marco’s nerves were as clear as the grass Jean could see through Marco’s arm. His face too had begun to fracture. “If it’s not exactly bad, then what is it?” Jean asked, watching as the specks twirled and swirled in Marco’s cheek, white as a blinding light. The familiar sensation of something crawling under his skin worked its way from Jean’s neck to his fingers, finding a haven in his stomach. He would never get used to Marco essentially falling into pieces.

Marco shrugged with whatever was left of his right shoulder, his arm almost fully curled up, a dense collection of white specks as if he had lost his arm all together. “Annie was always a bit odd.” Marco’s eyebrows drew together, thinking behind the colour and white as his cheek disappeared like the specks were never there.

Jean could see completely through him. Specks had drawn up to form white edges, still moving and writhing in their place, but leaving large open wounds of nothingness behind. It took everything in Jean to not get as far as way as possible. The more Marco stood there thinking, the more the specks grew agitated, shaking with a sense of violence Jean had not seen before.

Doing the best he could, Jean swallowed and hoped that he sounded calm when everything in him was trembling as much as parts of Marco were. “You guys were close though.” He remembered the photos Marco used to send from the academy: Annie and Marco posed arm in arm, or Marco’s arm around her shoulder, or the bruise from self-defense training that Annie had given him. Jean felt sick just thinking about it.

Marco moved to rub at his right arm and paused, his fingers finding nothing, surprised to find parts of himself not there. Growing fiercer than before, the specks trembled, his arm seeming to move back and forth as Marco stared with terrified wonder. “Yeah… in a sense.” Marco’s lips parted in confusion, any colour left in the rest of his visible face paling. Yet he spoke as if everything was normal, not letting his discovery into his voice. “We got paired up a lot.”

Jean didn’t know what to say. Marco turned his hand, comparing it against the other, twisting his wrist as if trying to will the colour to come back into his arm, as if he had never seen it before. Jean couldn’t blame him if he was terrified. Jean himself could barely stand to look at how half of Marco’s face and most of his arm disappeared. Part of Marco’s chest had begun to seemingly peel away, piece by piece, the smallest specks of white drawing back into his form.

Marco’s forlorn eyes met Jean’s and before Marco could try to touch his absent arm again, Jean stepped toward him. His fingers stretched forward, hoping to find the tips of Marco’s, but found merely a few specks, tingling as they made contact, brushing around ends of his fingers. Jean could feel his face falling into some mixture of fear and concern, hoping the latter came across clearer.

To his relief, specks began to unfurl, shimmering and swirling down Marco’s arm towards him. He remained still, fingers waiting for more of that sense of contact they’d just found. Colour slowly returning to his face, Marco’s shoulders relaxed and he sighed with a relief that made him smile. His body had begun to form again.

Marco was careful when he began to speak again, as if afraid a word might undo himself. “We weren’t meant to be there, Jean.” His eyes watched the white specks blend together with colour, looking real and whole once more. A sigh escaped his lips, half between a cry and a laugh. His face, too, was now whole.

“Annie said as much.” Jean nodded, wiggling the tips of his fingers to test the sparks they had felt before when Jean’s came in contact with Marco’s. The same tingle was still there. Jean nearly cried. He couldn’t touch too close, but for now this was close enough, a bit closer than before.

Something veered into the bright wonder in Marco's eyes, a shadow eclipsing the sense of hope once there when ideas came to the forefront of his mind. “Something wasn’t right.”

Jean found himself unsurprised. Clenching his jaw, he asked the only thing he could think of. “About her?” There had to be a reason for Marco's reaction, for the sudden change in him. If Jean had to step forward to keep him calm, keep him grounded, keep him here, he would do so in a heartbeat, but he couldn't probe any further if it might quite literally break Marco into pieces.

Marco seemed to swallow air, an distressed expression sitting on his face. “I don’t know.” As if just waiting for his worry to kick in, the specks started curling up his arm. The colour of his arm, of his uniform, glitched to white and back again.

“Let’s…” Jean extended his hand with as much hope as he could muster. He brushed over Marco’s arm, letting the tingle at this fingertips guide him. “Start back where we left off, hmmm?”

Jean offered out an open hand and a smile. It wasn’t a lot to offer, he knew, but falling back into some kind of rhythm, even if it was a dance in the dark, was more than enough for now. Marco didn’t hesitate to move himself close and form into the same position as before. Jean took the lead, pressing himself as close as Marco’s body would allow.

They waltzed to the very end of the night, step by step in the fading darkness, welcoming the sunrise with counts of three. Jean found himself smiling this time when Marco faded. Even his cheek and fingers tingled with the sense that Marco was still there. His touch had always been like that somehow. Jean had almost forgotten what that had felt like. It pushed away the worried thoughts, and Jean returned home happy.

* * *

Work the next day was blissfully quiet for Jean. The night's sleep had not treated him well; dreams of candles and darkness and bright stars filled his mind. Their glow kept him turning across his bed, unable to orient himself in the vast emptiness he found himself in. Thankfully work’s bright lights provided refuge, and his lunch break came upon him sooner than he expected.

"You joining us again?" Armin asked when Jean picked up all his things to leave for lunch. Behind him Armin rose from his desk, tucking his sketch pad into his bag alongside his glasses case.

Jean rose up from his seat and stretched out the tension in his legs. Sitting so long hunched over his desk and fiddling with gears most of the morning had taken a toll on his muscles. "I don't see why not."

Armin tapped his closed bag and headed for the door. He paused in the doorway and waited for Jean to gather his things. “Eren’s joining us again, if that’s okay?”

Jean shrugged and found no reason to argue. Their lunches had become a thing of habit. Even he found himself surprised by his sense of expectation and anticipation for them when another week had passed. The comfort in the routine, in the familiar, with people to talk to, made the world feel just that little bit less lonely.

Eren was waiting for them when they arrived. Stretched out in a cafe chair, he appeared as if he might fall asleep at any moment from watching the vase in the centre of the table out of boredom, or else fall off his chair. Catching sight of them, he signed something even Jean could understand: ‘What took you so long?’

Jean tried his best to sign ‘Sorry’ and found himself stumbling over the right form again. He had been trying to learn bits and pieces from Armin in between watch repairs. Occasionally he picked up a word or two from Eren, but it was a lot harder than he’d anticipated. Thankfully neither of them gave him trouble for it, though Eren was still amused by Jean's attempts when they went wrong. Jean couldn't blame him.

Armin apologised in his usual fashion, taking a seat beside Eren while Jean sat opposite. Their lunches had become a peculiar ritual, like nothing Jean had ever really experienced before. It felt good to feel connected again and know for sure that somehow he wasn’t as alone as he thought.

“How are you?” Jean asked and tried his best to sign the greeting Armin taught him. It was clumsy as always, not quite expressive enough and hand positions not quite right, but Eren simply smiled at Jean’s effort. To his relief, it was close enough to be clear.

Eren answered with a series of signs and leaned back into his chair. Jean didn’t need Armin’s translation to know that Eren was okay or made some quip about him. There’d become an easiness to their conversations somehow, even if Jean couldn’t understand everything without a little help.

When Armin and Eren’s eyes met and Armin’s voice grew quiet, Jean began to suspect he was now the topic of conversation. Hands moved faster, flurried movements as their faces turned stern and expressed soundless words Jean couldn’t read. They appeared to nod, coming to a silent agreement as their eyes darted ever so slightly Jean’s way. He didn’t know whether to interrupt or call the waiter over to their table to order something to distract them all.

Perhaps Jean should have played into it and pretended he didn't suspect that this was about him. He mused over the cafe menu as if he hadn’t seen it for the last few months and didn’t know everything forwards and backwards. “So… have either of you seen anything lately?” He thumbed over the pages, watching them both out of the corner of his eye. As vague as his question was, he didn’t want to sway the conversation more than necessary.

Armin’s quick breath in broke their focus. His lips pressed together, a gesture that revealed the inner workings in his mind. “We…” He checked with Eren for approval and at Eren’s firm nod, he continued, “We were going to bring something up with you actually.” His hands clasped in front of him on the table.

Everything about Armin felt stiff, trying to hide what he was truly thinking behind those rectangular glasses of his. While Jean would have shrugged away his suspicions if Armin weren’t so serious, he found himself increasingly worried at the expression on his face. Then there was Eren, who couldn't stop fidgeting with his hands whenever he stopped signing.

“What is it?” Jean leaned onto the table, eyeing them both in turn. Neither of them seemed to be able to make eye contact with him. “It must be important if we haven’t even ordered.” Jean tapped at the menu on the table, but his focus remained on the quiet tension building between them. Whatever appetite Jean had put itself on hold, fading into the background like the sounds of cutlery against crockery and the chatter of cafe patrons.

Eren moved first, trying his best to make his signing clear to Jean but all Jean could make out was that the message was coming from both of them. He could make out a ‘we’ and something about ‘thought’ and everything else blurred so quickly together in Eren’s apparently nervous signing. All of Jean’s brief lessons went out the window and he felt so useless being the odd one out.

Jean turned expectantly to Armin, who nodded and waited, frowning and working his thumb against the menu in front of him. Normally Armin started speaking as soon as he had a grasp of what Eren was going to say. His hesitation couldn’t be a good sign.

“We…” Armin finally began, watching Eren more than facing Jean. “We need to talk about what you’ve been doing with your time lately.” Armin spoke slowly, testing every word as it came past his tongue. His eyes flickered to Jean’s with a sense of worry Jean had seen but dismissed before. “It’s becoming harder to ignore.”

Their faces changed when Jean frowned. He could feel his brows forming into a heavy line of confusion. For moments he said nothing, waiting for more. There was a lot that Eren said that Armin didn’t pass on. Eren nudged Armin to continue but Armin awkwardly refused.

Too distracted by their silent argument, Jean failed to notice the chair beside him moving until Mikasa abruptly sat down to join them. “Sorry I’m late.” She threw her handbag under the table before leaning her elbows on the wood, nodding to Armin and Eren then Jean in turn. “Traffic turned into a nightmare.” Without a beat, Mikasa asked them, “Have you told him?”

Armin shook his head. Whatever Armin meant by the tugging of his lips into a thin line or the way his hands worked over his knuckles, Jean didn’t know. It all looked rather painful from where Jean was sitting. No one was here because they wanted a chat. They were here because they specifically wanted to talk to _him_.

“We were just getting to that.” Armin’s fingers folded themselves together neatly on the table. They intertwined in the way Armin always took to when he was about to say something that made him uncomfortable. Over the years he had lost himself in the creation of designs, knitting his fingers together in thought, but on the occasions he would do this, white-knuckled and tense, there was some form of feedback he was about to give that he would rather not.

Readjusting himself in his seat, Jean leaned back, feeling encroached upon by the confrontation of the three of them. They held secrets that Jean could never know, exchanged in glances across and through him somehow. “What are you going in about?”

Mikasa rested herself further on the table. It creaked beneath her, one foot underneath it slightly shorter than the other, and it settled when she tapped her fingers. “We saw you. In the cemetery.” The grey of her eyes was the sharpest Jean thought he might have ever seen them. Nothing escaped her when she held someone’s gaze that way. Jean knew it all too well. He had to gulp down his nerves to even think of an answer.

Taking Mikasa’s lead, Armin took the opportunity to question Jean. “You've been spending your nights there, haven't you?” Where Mikasa’s eyes were sharp, Armin’s eyes were piercing, gazing through Jean with their ardent blue and seeming to tug at the truth sitting on Jean’s tongue. He had wanted to tell Armin everything from the beginning but Jean doubted he would get far without adding more worries to the pile. A skeptical man was the hardest to convince.

Armin began to add more but was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. Eren signed something quickly, earning a nod and a tightening of Armin’s expression. “We're worried,” he translated and nodded in his own agreement. They seemed to understand each other in a way Jean never would. He wondered for a moment if he’d had something like that with Marco, if that’s what they had looked like from the outside.

“This is an intervention,” Mikasa stated with a brief turn of her head for their approval. The clutter of the cafe didn’t seem to take away from how heavily that word hung in the air, how loudly it rang in Jean’s ears.

He had never considered the possibility of anyone ever seeing him, of noticing something was going on when they slept at night. Armin had picked up on something months ago. Though it had passed without too much of an issue. Admittedly, Jean had not been too concerned about how he might appear to outsiders, how he might look talking to himself -- to Marco, when he was the only one who could see him. Jean ran all the possibilities through his mind and cringed at what they might have seen him do last night.

He played it off as casually as he could. His brows drew together to match his frown. “What? So you guys planned this.” None of them could meet his gaze. Instead they stared at the table, at their hands, at the menus in front of them. Silence fell across the table, settling amongst their forgotten lunch orders. Jean would need to eat soon but he didn’t know if he had any appetite left.

Armin cleared his throat first. Somehow he had become their spokesperson. Jean could tell by how they looked his way, and he was not the least bit surprised. “With Marco's stuff turning up like that... and you've already been restless...” He gestured in small round circles, trying to sum up his words and willing the gears working in his head to move faster. His awkward way with words did him no favours.

The tension in Jean’s shoulders tightened and drew across his back. Nothing about this felt right. While he had no idea what they saw, they had no idea about what Jean had seen, what he knew. There was so much more that he wanted to tell them, but nothing would get them to understand exactly why Jean had been there. Explaining Marco’s presence in the cemetery would certainly make an intervention worse. Jean said the best he could come up with, truly only saying nothing in the grand scheme of things. “You don't understand.”

Mikasa nervously licked her lips and readjusted herself as if she held back something unpleasant. Her face gave away the words she wanted to say. There was an apology behind her eyes, already forming in the grey, somehow softening the tight line her lips formed. “Look, it hurts to lose someone…” Self-consciously, she exchanged looks with Armin and Eren and followed them with a deep breath. “We know first hand, but this is…”

“This is what?” Jean asked, hitting the table with impatient hands. The table rattled, its ceramic vase shaking in its place, and Jean felt something shaking in him too, somewhere in his ribcage. He could not claim that they didn’t know how he felt, but this was different. Marco was there, waiting for him when he got there. Perhaps he was just going mad, but he had to believe it was true. “I’ll _deal_ with it in my _own_ way. It’s only been a few months since...”

Jean had to stop himself then. He could still feel the kitchen table from the day he heard the news. He could still see the look in his mother’s eyes and remember wondering at how strange it was that his phone was downstairs. So much had changed since then.

They would never believe him if he told them exactly how. Where they saw him grieving, visiting Marco’s grave out of desperation, Jean knew that he visited more out of hope. Every trip was another chapter that he was blessed to discover, another page he could write. He never knew where any of this story was going, but writing it kept him on the edge of his seat. And the story wasn’t done yet.

A worried look crossed Mikasa’s face and rather than speak, she turned to send silent messages with her eyes to the others. Eren signed first, apparently unafraid of saying the wrong thing. Armin sighed and reluctantly translated, “You’re visiting Marco’s grave.” Eren gestured around him, pointing out Armin and Mikasa, and Jean instinctively knew what he was about to say. “We’ve all seen you.”

Jean’s gut churned. He had visited Marco’s grave so many times, but the important thing now was when they had seen him, whether they had seen him talking to himself, and whether they saw him dancing on his own in the dark. He suspected that grave-dancing wasn’t looked upon fondly, especially not by friends who were worried about his grief.

He rubbed his hands over each other, trying to think of how best to answer the three sets of eyes that stared his way. Each of them were tinted with a sense of worry he hadn't seen before. He couldn't imagine how much more worried they would look if he told them the truth. Perhaps trying to play it off was the best he could hope for. "Of course I would visit Marco's grave." If he played up the indignation in his voice, that should cover the surprise that he wanted to hide.

Armin chimed in this time. "But you're visiting often." He crossed his arms, despite his glasses sliding down his nose when he tilted his head forward to think. "It's affecting your work, it's affecting your sleep." Armin's hands folded together on the table as he avoided Jean's eyes. "We're worried that you're unable to let go of--"

"Let go?" Jean's voice broke into a rasp. The idea of Marco sitting at his grave, waiting for Jean in the daylight, unseen and alone. The idea of letting that image of him go, of letting Marco go at all when he was just sitting there, made Jean's hair stand on end. He never knew he could feel so angry at the suggestion, and none of the people opposite thought he would look so angry either. Jean immediately softened the frown on his face.

Hot air seemed to come out his nose when he adjusted his position. He sat back in his chair to assess the three of them, wondering how angry he must look if they were we all sat up straight in theirs. "What I do... for me... for how I feel... is... is up to me." Never mind the fact that most of his feelings could be summed up as fear and worry and guilt. Maybe, with last night in mind, there was a brief hint of hope there.

Mikasa nodded and her voice left her lips as soft as a whisper. She sounded almost sad to hear the hurt in Jean’s voice. A twinge of regret tightened around his chest as soon as she answered, "Jean... we know..." The waiter wandering nearby glanced over and decided to not interrupt the intense conversation going on at the far table. Jean couldn’t blame him.

Grabbing his attention again, Mikasa leaned forward, hand stretched out for Jean’s. “Armin saw you…” No hint of accusation lay in her voice, much to Jean’s surprise, rather a sense that Jean needed to know he had been seen, a sense of pity and concern. Jean didn’t deserve any of it, because there was nothing to worry about, except what precisely they had seen.

Jean watched his coworker, whose gaze avoided his as if secrets lay behind him. Perhaps Armin had seen Jean dancing with nothing and wondered, as Armin often did, what Jean was doing acting so strangely in the middle of a cemetery, at night. The answers alone would have clouded Armin’s head. No wonder he had been so nosy.

“Saw me what?” Jean asked, first of Armin, then turning to Mikasa when Armin refused to answer. He tried hiding the shaking in his voice. Perhaps he had only seen Jean hunched over and anxious, back when he wondered why Marco wasn’t there and thought himself going mad. Whether Marco’s reappearance made him any _less_ mad was something Jean hadn’t figured out yet. That could wait for another day.

Armin appeared distressed, enough for Jean to question how he felt. Though Jean didn’t doubt that all of those paranoid thoughts swimming around in his head probably showed on his face as well. “Talking with Luca, burying something there,” Armin muttered and finally dared to look up and meet Jean’s eyes. Somehow the blue in them seemed so much more cautious than normal. He’d never been like this when he asked Jean things at work, even when he felt the most self-conscious about his designs. This was different.

Pulling a face, tugging his lips to the side as if truly worried, Jean breathed a sigh of relief as quietly as he could manage with the three of them watching. They hadn’t seen what worried Jean the most. They hadn’t seen him dancing, or crying, or talking to someone that no one else could see. Even if Armin had seen Jean with Luca, Jean had been sure to not look or sound like he was talking to anyone else, and if Luca hadn’t noticed, he doubted anyone else would have from afar.

Mikasa didn't allow him to think much more when she cut in, "You visit more often than you should." A hint of suggestion lay in her words. She didn’t believe he should be doing what he wanted, visiting Marco whenever he was bound to appear. Admittedly he visited more than he should have in the beginning, but that was up to him.

"Is that for you to decide?" he asked far more aggressively than he intended. She shrunk away and let her fingers hang onto the edge of the table. Even the waiter at a nearby table pulled a face before skulking away. Jean hadn’t yelled, he hadn’t been loud, but the venom on his tongue was likely enough to make any of them tense. Only Eren stood there unfazed. Instead his eyes narrowed marginally, assessing Jean and showing disapproval with his frown.

Jean leaned onto the table and stole a napkin from the centre. Folding its corners, he worked out his frustrations with his fingers. "Do you..." He took a deep breath to calm himself. There was no need to be angry at his friends. They had reasonable reasons to be concerned but they wouldn’t understand if he told them, so they couldn’t understand his need to visit Marco’s grave as often as he did. "Do you have any idea?" He knew they never would.

Armin adjusted his glasses and stared at Jean's hands. The air hung heavy with the words unsaid, the avoidant glances, and the awkward tension that knotted itself in between shoulders. Jean could hear Armin gulp in the silence before he spoke. "We know you loved him but..." Armin's eyes found Jean's and even behind his glasses, Jean could see how much it pained him to say that aloud to Jean. Saying those words aloud felt painful for both of them. It remained when he continued, "Death..."

Jean interrupted him to input his own thoughts. "Death is a part of life." He was never one for poetry but he believed this now. They hadn't seen Marco come back, in whatever form he was now, and they hadn't been able to see for themselves just how strange and wonderful that was. It might pain Jean to leave Marco there but it was probably the best he could ever hope for. "Doesn't mean I'm going to avoid it since it's kind of unavoidable anyway..." Jean shrugged.

Silence fell over all of them. They had said their thoughts and Jean had not so gracefully ignored them. He wasn't about to be told that he couldn't visit Marco. The trips had made Marco's absence so much easier to deal with. There was still part of him there and that was something Jean would hope for, while everything else continued on around him as if Marco had never been there in the first place.

Letting it go, Armin signalled for the waiter to approach them. His face was apprehensive when he took their orders but that faded just as their tensions did. Jean was thankful the three of them could let it go. He might not have the best way of coping with Marco not being here, but it was _his_ way. Regardless of what anyone thought, he was going to continue to visit Marco. Though he might need to be more careful about someone following him on his visits.

Their lunch seemed like a blur afterwards. Mikasa spoke about studying law, a long tale of the difficulties of late-night essays and using coffee as fuel that sounded so foreign to Jean. He zoned out in between sips of his water and nibbling at the last few crumbs of his fries. There was little more for him to say when the three of them were together. It was a bond he might never be able to understand, but watching them was nice.

Jean excused himself and left early, unable to stand the tension in his back as he continued sitting with them. It wasn't easy to pretend that they had called an intervention because they had noticed his late night disappearances.

The bright lights of work hurt his eyes when he walked back in. A small nod from Erwin up the back greeted him and Jean already felt grateful for Erwin's understanding that he wanted to be left alone. Regardless of how Jean had been in the last few months, Erwin had been supportive, preferring to leave Jean to his own grief rather than butting in where he didn't understand what Jean was going through. A quiet understanding was all that Jean felt he needed.

Sasha threw him a smile when he walked past. A nervous flutter of her eyelashes and shuffle of her feet told him that she knew. "How was lunch?" Her usual happy voice had been replaced by that fake politeness when she wasn't happy with a customer, where she listened to a customer tell her how right they were when she knew different. Sasha had always found it difficult to hide what she knew.

"Intervention, you mean." Jean frowned with an expectant glance. She almost shrivelled at the look in his eyes. She had known about it, despite not being there. Their conspiring sat awkwardly in his stomach, that they could so easily talk about his own journey through grief behind his back without approaching him before now. He tried his best to not judge them too harshly. Worry had an odd way of changing people when it worked its strange and dark magic.

Connie chose to approach at that moment, rounding the counter to look Jean in the eye. They had both been a part of it. "We were worried about you." Every part of his voice sounded guilty, but just as unforgiving, like Jean deserved to be confronted about his choices. Jean closed his eyes to rein in his frustration. They were just worried. That's all it was.

Jean nodded, feeling defeated when both of their wide eyes seemed to fall with their smiles. Somehow Jean managed to make himself smile, heartstrings tugging along with it in some strange array of emotional pulleys. His old friends cared and that in itself meant so much that he wouldn't forget it, but with Annie on his case, this was the last thing he needed.

"Talk to me next time?" Jean found himself begging. The thought of never seeing Marco again floated up into his mind. If they chose to prevent him from going, or to keep tabs on him, that might very well become a reality. He had to be careful not to worry them more. "Tell me to my face that you're worried. I'm right here. Trust that I am doing what I feel is right for me." Their faces grew more embarrassed. " _Please_."

Sasha and Connie nodded. Their agreement meant more to Jean than they would ever know. Perhaps Jean would be free to visit Marco as he pleased. He could never explain how at ease it made him feel to know that he could still talk to Marco, tell him about his day, and feel some strange semblance of the past. Where he thought he had lost everything, he found that some things do remain behind.

Connie waved Jean off first, returning back to the floor to say hello to a customer that walked in. Sasha, however, looked torn, turning to glance over at Connie and back at Jean again. Her apologetic smile said more than she ever needed to and before she could speak, Jean stepped forward to pull her into a hug.

His arms wrapped around her as his chin tucked over her shoulder. She was still exceptionally tall. Somehow Jean had almost forgotten that despite working with her for years. "I know he meant a lot to you too," he mumbled by her ear. He could never forget how close Marco had been with her in high school. When Jean couldn't be there, she was, and that was something he could never forget; he could never thank her enough.

Her sniffs drew him back from his memories. Her hands pushed him away and when he met her eyes, the unmistakeable glint of approaching tears was there. "I miss him." Her lip quivered, voice shaking at the admission. For as much as they had worked together since Marco's passing, she had never spoken up about her own feelings. Jean felt horrible for never realising how much she hid them, probably for his sake.

Before he knew what he was doing, he pulled back to look her in the face, his hands gripping onto her shoulders. The customers could think all they liked when he bowed his head a little to stare directly into her eyes. No intention of his could be lost and he had to be sure she knew how much he appreciated her. "How about you and me catch up sometime? Share all the embarrassing stories about Marco that we can think of." Jean cocked his head to the side and let a smirk work its way onto his face.

Sniffling, Sasha laughed through a smile. The small puff of air was enough to let Jean know that she was going to be okay. "Yeah, that'd be nice." Her eyes shone then, from the lights or from her sense of humour showing for a moment; Jean wasn't sure. "Though I probably have the most embarrassing ones. I think I'd win."

Jean chuckled and let go of her shoulders. He stood back and cast a sly look her way. "You think so? I've got several years on you." Sasha might have known Marco well enough, but Jean had known him a lot longer. There were enough stories to fill an entire book with all of the things he knew about Marco, and enough of them were embarrassing to win any bet Sasha might try to make. The whole idea sounded ridiculous but part of Jean loved it.

"Oh but you don't have the teenage years," Sasha argued with a grin. Tilting her head, she took her ponytail into her hand and began to twirl the curls at the end with her fingers. She had a point and she knew it. Jean hadn't had the luxury of seeing Marco at school as much as she had. Sharing the same classes most of the way through high school had its advantages. "I've got enough accidental boner incidents to take you down." She winked his way, certain that she had won before they had started.

Jean pouted and exaggerated the amused expression on his face, noting how Sasha's tears had disappeared. "That so?" he mused aloud, and pretended to assess her like a real contender. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to reminisce with someone who knew him well. Maybe she had even known him like Jean had. Everyone gets to see a different side of people, and perhaps he hadn't seen everything there was to see.

"Uh-huh." Happy with her perceived triumph, Sasha nodded with an all-knowing look. She chuckled again and pushed playfully against Jean's shoulder. He took it as a sign that everything would be okay at the very least, and it was time to get back to work. He saluted at her with a wink and returned back to his desk. Making Sasha smile again, truly smile, seemed like the best thing he had accomplished all day.

Work progressed for the rest of the week as normal. With everyone’s worries finally off their chest, no one seemed weighed down by the guilt of not saying anything. Jean was thankful for that. The promise of the new moon in a few weeks’ time kept him going, and he had to wonder if that was all his life was now: the moments between the dark nights when he would be able to see Marco again.

Yet the impending meeting with Annie weighed heavier on his mind. She obviously suspected to find something in whatever Jean had received from the academy. It wasn't worth letting the others know about their meeting when they had made sure he knew how worried they already were. There was no need to worry them more, and there was nothing to be worried about since this was just a regular old meeting with one of Marco's former colleagues -- his partner, to be exact.

As much as he told himself that things would go smoothly, Jean couldn't forget how their previous encounters had gone. Annie had a way of bringing out the frustration in Jean, frustration he didn't know that he had. Perhaps this was just something he was over-imagining. She just wanted to see what Marco had. Apparently there was something important enough to her that she needed to pry into Marco's things.

Something about her tone still seemed troublesome to him, as if there were something more to what she was saying. Maybe it was simply guilt. She had been the one to find Marco, after all, and as far as Jean knew no one had found out who was responsible. Jean had put it down to a raid being chaos. Besides, more than just Marco had perished that night and in the mess of everything Jean could forgive mistakes. Maybe Annie couldn't.

Friday came about sooner than he expected. The work day had felt sluggish with the clock ticking slower and slower at every glance Jean made. He kept Marco's things on his desk as a reminder, afraid he might forget the meeting in the afternoon, despite how anxious it made him. Something about his meeting felt so very wrong. Marco might have been fine with it, if he had bothered to mention it, but Jean couldn't bear to tell him or ask him when even the slightest mention of his death made his features literally crumble away.

The constant guilt bubbled up in his chest at the idea he was going to share more than Marco had ever wanted to, things that he had never meant to share. Jean had been too afraid to check for them himself. There was no doubt in his mind that secrets he never wanted to know lay hidden in pencil markings and bent pages, scribbled over ripped out articles from old newspapers. Whatever obsession Marco had in the months leading up to his death, Jean wasn't sure he wanted to know. He certainly wasn't prepared to ask.

When he left work, he shrugged off Sasha and Connie's invitation to the bar, and dismissed Armin's worried glance. He couldn't have them following or interfering with this. He needed to know what Annie wanted and he wasn't about to have them asking questions that might compromise any new information he might find. Nor did he want them knowing things about Marco that they might never have wanted to know. He would take the brunt of that discovery on his own.

Annie sat at the back of the cafe when Jean turned up. One leg crossed over the other, she waited with an empty coffee cup, her spoon dangling off the saucer beneath it. She wasn't in uniform as he had expected; instead she wore a light blue blouse with short sleeves and a denim skirt that ended at her knees. She looked extraordinarily plain compared to the image Jean had imagined on the way over, especially with her hair down and brushing against her shoulders. She appeared so much softer than Jean had ever seen her that he almost didn't realise it was her.

Only when Jean got to the table did he figure out how to greet her. "Someone got the day off, I see." Trying to be casual was the best he could do to calm his nerves. He pulled out a chair and sat opposite her without another word. Neither of them made eye contact at first, leaving Jean to play with Marco’s ring on his left hand, wishing for the heavy air to disappear.

"Did you bring them?" she asked immediately without a hint of pleasantries. She was only here to find out what she wanted to know after all. Jean had thought they would at least chat a little before they got to that. He suspected that she'd probably been sitting here a lot longer than they’d planned, considering the empty cup on the table.

The canvas bag of Marco's things hit the table with a clatter. Annie's cup nearly toppled off its saucer but remained standing with a touch of her finger. Her eyes seemed passive when he finally met them. While he was there to meet her, Jean wasn't entirely sure she was there at all, if he were to judge by the absent look in her eye. This held no thrill for her and Jean had to be thankful for that.

Jean shrugged and didn't know what else to do with his body but gesture vaguely at the collection of things in the bag. "That's them." He nodded far more than he should have. The tense feeling in his body made him little more than an awkward marionette, moving his muscles in ways they didn't normally move. "H-hello to you too." She made him more nervous than he wanted to admit.

Her eyes were like daggers when he met them, cold and sharp, digging into every stitch of guilt Jean had and ripping it out. Perhaps he shouldn't be sharing these things with Annie, but surely Marco would have. She was his partner in the academy. Jean had seen more pictures of her than anyone else in the last few years. He still had some of them saved on his phone. This had to be the right course of action, or at least he needed to believe that.

She cleared her throat and relaxed her shoulders. Maybe she was just as tense as he was. "Hi Jean." Her tone softened, or maybe Jean just imagined it did, seeing her dressed like this. "Did you want something?" Even when she was trying to be pleasant, her voice still cut into him, every inflection sounding dry and accusatory. She raised her hand to the air and called over the waiter. Only when Jean realised her intention did he relax. The nerves were doing his head in.

Facing the waiter, Jean agreed, nodding his head too many times again. "Can I get whatever she had?" He gestured towards Annie's cup before looking up at her and asking, "Did you want one too?" She declined with a shake of her head. It was worth offering it to her anyway. Marco had liked her, so he might as well try to be nice.

The waiter left them with a curt nod. Jean wished he could have left their table too, but instead he fixed himself in his chair and leaned on the table's edge. Rifling through the canvas bag, he pulled notebook after notebook out onto the table. Pieces of paper covered in red ink fell out amongst loose newspaper clippings. The pile grew until the contents of the canvas bag were scattered across the table. As nervous as he was seeing the mess, he would see this through, regardless of how it would turn out. For Marco.

Annie drew his attention with the cold tin of her voice. "Do you always drink what everyone else is having?" Her eyebrow rose with a hint of amusement and maybe the smallest smile he had ever seen on her face. Even she had some sense of humour, it seemed. Somehow that made Jean feel more at ease.

He tidied the papers strewn across the table, placing newspaper articles together and stacking the four notebooks on top of each other. Jean smiled and let himself laugh in front of her. "I figured it put us on an even playing field." Letting himself relax some more, he shrugged and played off his levity. It felt good to make light of the situation that was otherwise more serious than he wanted it to be.

Annie frowned and Jean immediately missed the semblance of a smile on her face. She leaned to mirror him, arms crossing across the table. Her hair swung and brushed by her cheekbones. Its layers framed her face well despite how shaggy they appeared. Jean would have thought her pretty if she didn't immediately show her disapproval with her eyes. "What do you expect this is, Jean?"

Not sure what she was referring to at first, Jean furrowed his brows and stared at his organised mess of Marco's things, wishing for an answer to present itself. All he could make out were the question marks in pencil that covered every piece of white that Jean could see. Glancing up at her eyes again, he realised she meant their meeting -- not what lay before him, but why they were both here, the purpose of their odd rendezvous.

The waiter interrupted his answer when he found his tongue. The espresso slid across the table with ease, wobbling slightly in place. Its warm aroma reached Jean's nose a second after the waiter left with a small smile. Jean took a moment to drink it and let the flavour of his drink settle on his tongue. "It feels like an inspection," he answered finally. That's what she wanted to hear, surely.

Accusative and blunt, she tapped her fingers along her arm. "Of your boyfriend's things?" Jean could see how she had become a cop. She had an air that was both demanding and stern with a drive that kept her going, probably longer than most people would in her situation. This to her was probably no different from any other case she might work on. Even her physique was built for it. She could easily have taken Jean if anything ever came to blows. He felt blessed that it would never come to that.

Jean was speechless. Everything about this felt like an inspection of Marco's belongings, delving into things they probably shouldn't know. Then again, that was what Annie did as part of her job. Jean, however, felt guilty about rifling through things he was never meant to see. His breath shook out of him when he insisted, "Look, I'm --"

"Worried," Annie interrupted and gestured over Jean's posture. "I can see that." She could see the way his shoulders hunched, how his back was tense, and probably the way he curled his toes beneath the table. He felt so exposed under her watchful eye. She thankfully didn't seem to notice the effect she had on Jean. He suspected everyone reacted like this around her, so his reaction was no different from anyone else's.

Jean took another sip and wondered what it was about a double shot espresso that Annie liked so much. The thought passed when the cup hit its saucer and he turned his attention to her observation. "Why shouldn't I be? You're making this all out to be serious." He hadn't forgotten how she had called in the middle of the night while Marco watched on with concern. There must have been something important in this collection of Marco’s for her to make the call out of the blue.

Scoffing, Annie shook her head, flicking strands of blonde hair across her face. She relaxed her posture, sitting back from the table but arms still resting on its edge. "I'm trying to make sure it's not serious." Every movement seemed to be trying to match to what she said, but her eyes told a different story. They were too focussed on his face, on his expressions, on his posture, to truly be not serious about this. She was the one wondering how Jean was reacting.

One of his eyebrows rose in curiosity and doubt. Both feelings surged through him and he wondered how much of how she appeared today was for him, an act he was meant to fall for. Everything in him told him not to trust what she was saying, but he couldn't be sure if he didn’t just feel that way because he didn't like her as a person.

Flipping casually through the newspaper articles and judging their pictures, Jean asked, "What are you looking for exactly?" The articles were several years old, going back as far as 2002. None of them looked familiar except for the jewel robbery that Marco's father had been involved with. As Jean skimmed over them, the words seemed to blur and the only connecting link seemed to be the theft of jewellery across the years. Perhaps that was what Marco had found, what Annie was looking for.

A chair nearby screeched across the wooden floorboards and drew Jean's attention. Reiner had dragged out one of the chairs of a nearby table. Its legs dug into the floor and released their awful sound of friction into the cafe. He was immediately joined by Bertholdt, taking the seat opposite when Reiner sat down.

The presence of the two of them in the cafe at this time, as Jean met with Annie, immediately sent a wave of relief through him. He felt grateful that at least there were familiar faces nearby that he could count on if he needed. Both of whom just happened to be security guards that had known him for years. Annie, however, was someone he didn't know from a cake of soap, despite having seen her picture for as many years as he had known the guards.

Feeling ridiculous about his sense of ease, Jean shook his head and began to flip through the notebooks. "What _are_ they?" Jean asked, noting that Annie hadn't started looking through them either. At first Jean figured she was just waiting for him to have the honour of breaking into someone's personal belongings, but when he looked up he found she was looking elsewhere.

Her eyes were focussed on Reiner and Bertholdt sitting a table away, a small scowl sitting on her face. When she noticed she had his attention, she responded without turning her head, "Case files. _Secrets_." Narrowing her eyes, she seemed to dismiss whatever concern was eating at her and immediately turned back to their issue at hand.

"What are you hoping to find?" Jean asked again, hoping she might be more open this time. He found more scribbles by Marco that detailed robbery after robbery in the Trost area. In pencil, Marco had underscored every mention of his father's name. Something about that fact did not sit comfortably in Jean's stomach. He did not like where this was going, not when he knew how concerned Marco had once been about his father’s work.

Soft and disinterested, Annie answered when she grabbed a journal and started flipping through, "Something." Unsatisfied with every page, she kept on flipping and paused at a few to read them before quickly moving on again. She mouthed words like she had never read them before, but without any sense of surprise, she kept flipping through until she found what she knew she was looking for, but wouldn't say what that was, a smug smile appearing on her face.

Jean rolled his eyes and kept skimming through his. The frown distorted his features, but he didn't care how he looked in front of her. She could think him the rudest, most cocky man she had ever met for all he cared. She wasn't trying to be pleasant towards him, that was for sure. "That's not helpful," he announced, directing his words at both her and Marco's notes.

Annie cut him off and threw the book in front of his face. Her finger pointed at a series of scribbles in Marco's handwriting, presenting it like it was the obvious solution. "This one says that Marco's father arrested a man suspected in the robberies." Sure enough, in Marco's hand there were a series of notes about the time Arthur Bodt had arrested a man suspected of the string of jewellery and pawn shop robberies throughout Trost. Jean couldn't help but notice the name Levi Ackerman underlined in the newspaper article taped to the page. "They're rather like the burglary you had here a year ago, aren't they?"

The question caught Jean off guard. Annie placed the book down on the table, almost hitting the saucer under Jean's half-full espresso. "He told you?" he asked, unable to resist the sudden question in his mind. She hadn't been around when it happened and it was unlikely for such a small event to reach the academy. He had only told Marco about it. That had to be how she knew.

Annie huffed and cast her eyes downward with a smile. "There was very little he didn't say about you..." Fond memories of Marco played across the features of her face. It was hard to miss. Jean could recognise that look on anyone, and it felt comforting to know that even Annie had had some form of affection for Marco, too. "When he had the chance, " she corrected when she glanced back again. Her expression changed to something more knowing. "I think it made him feel less homesick." For a moment, Jean suspected her gaze upon him became gentler.

Jean took the page away from her to read over it more closely. He squinted and turned the page, hoping it might reveal something more to him if he manipulated it with his hands. "Hmmm, I suppose so." In Marco's notes there were a few details about the lack of witnesses, diamonds and gold being stolen, and most of the glass having been broken to gain entry. Nothing out of the ordinary but for the odd change from red ink to pencil. "I don't see much detail about how they're similar.” That was not including the photos of excessive damage to the glass windows. That couldn’t be a coincidence. He mused his thoughts aloud, “There was one in our store only weeks ago...."

Annie pulled the book back to her and read over it again. Her fingers traced the pages like that might lead to more information than she could see with her eyes alone. Jean understood the need to feel things to find more than what the eye could see or what the mind could read. "I don’t see anything about that in here," she addressed him directly with a blank expression. "It all seems rather odd, don't you think?”

"I think it's odd that Marco decided to look into all of this." Jean suspected Marco had kept a notebook for a while, but the more that he looked over his and the one in Annie's hand, the more he realised the handwriting looked much different between them. Two sets of handwriting adorned those pages; one in pencil and one in pen. Maybe there was something to that. "When's the earliest date in his journal?" Jean had to know if this was just a hunch or if there was something more to all of this writing.

Annie flipped through to the beginning of the book, reading dates in amongst the many other notes that defied the ruled lines of every page. "It looks like it's right after he started at the academy. I must have only just met him then." Her eyebrows rose when she read through and found a series of dates, decorated with a collection of news articles. She almost appeared concerned when she realised how long he had kept them. Maybe she hadn't known about them as long as Jean had suspected.

"He visited me about a month before he stopped responding to my messages," Jean said aloud and realised he hadn't ever known of this secret of Marco's. He wondered how much it must have consumed him, that he felt the need to collate all of this information into one carefully annotated mess. "I had told him about the store burglary and he must have taken this upon himself. I didn't think he could be that worried about me." Jean wasn't sure how much he knew for sure and how much he hoped that was true. All of it churned his stomach, rolling around in there heavily, jabbing him in the sides with an extra helping of guilt and just a pinch of sadness.

Annie pursed her lips, tilting her head as if something else occurred to her. "But to connect it to his father?" She clicked her tongue and ran it across her teeth. Playing with the pages in her hand, she assessed Jean while another thought came to her. "You don't think he was paranoid, do you?"

Sitting up straight, Jean didn't like what he was hearing. "What are you saying?" Perhaps he had heard incorrectly or he had mistaken what exactly Annie was trying to say. He would give Annie the benefit of the doubt. Surely she didn't really mean what he thought he heard.

Her sigh tinted whatever hopes Jean had. Her sideways glance across the cafe didn't instill him with any more confidence that what she was about to say was pleasant. "I'm just suggesting that perhaps Marco was trying to pull too many ideas together." Completely serious, Annie intertwined her fingers on the table, nodding towards Marco's things.

Jean's mouth dropped open and nothing managed to form together within it as his mind rattled Annie's suggestion in his brain. She couldn't truly be that serious about what she was saying. She knew Marco perhaps as well as Jean did, at least within the last few years. "So you're saying he was putting the wrong pieces together," Jean paraphrased her words in the hopes he might find some clarity through them.

Her eyes avoided his, darting off to her left, finding something of more interest on the floor than Jean's face. "To someone he might have been, yes." Jean hoped she wasn't implying what he suspected, that Marco had gotten himself into deep trouble. He had considered the notion that Marco might have been looking for information but not that anyone had found out about it. Perhaps that was what she was truly looking for, whoever Marco uncovered in the process. Maybe there was something more behind all of this. He just hadn't seen it yet.

Clearing his throat, Jean felt his features warp into the semblance of an unhappy man. He guessed that’s exactly what he was. "There seems to be a pattern here though. Between the ones he found." Jean tried to point out the details he had seen only in passing, but his fingers simply pointed out randomly. He hoped Annie knew what he meant.

"That all involved his father," Annie corrected, and Jean had to admit she was right. No matter how they turned the page and looked over Marco's notes, that was one of the recurring threads between all of them. Every story that Marco had found related to his father. Jean felt something heavy and awkward put weight on his spine and a heat that ran through his veins, too hot to feel relaxed. If it weren't for his resolve he might have been shaking.

Breathing through his teeth, Jean resigned himself to her point, as much as it pained him to admit that to himself. She was the cop out of the two of them, after all, and she was trained to look for patterns. "You don't think that's important." Jean almost sounded disappointed with her for not agreeing that Marco was onto something and with himself for thinking it was anything more than that, but surely it wasn't that simple.

She played with the spoon on her saucer, picking it up and tracing its round edge. "I think it's the result of an overzealous police officer in training with _a lot_ to live up to." Annie made no attempt to look at him then. Her tone was almost cruel. Jean thanked her silently that she didn't deem it necessary to look at him when she thought aloud with no emotion like that. "He probably researched his father's history and came upon incidents that looked similar, because he was worried about you." Her fingers tapped the spoon against the saucer with a clink. It sounded just as sour as she did.

A careful hush came over Jean when he tried to speak again, almost too afraid to know what she truly thought. "Did _you_ think he was paranoid?" Marco had a way of observing everything around him, so much more than Jean was capable of. Perhaps he really was worried and taking things out of context, building them up into a messy collection of pencil and paper.

Jean must have caught Annie by surprise, for her eyes widened and a short question abruptly left her mouth, "What?" Annie didn't seem to understand why Jean was asking the same question of her, but she had just made that kind of accusation with her own words. Surely she knew what she was saying.

Drawing himself up, shoulders back and chest out, he tried to retain as much confidence as he could muster up. "Is this what you were looking for in these?" he demanded and found some further strength in his words. If Annie was going to make random assumptions about Marco, his Marco, she needed to be able to give him a good reason as to why. "You needed to know, prove, he was off the rails before he died." The words tasted bitter on his tongue but his jaw was too tight to stop now.

He took another deep breath, feeling the tension built up in his muscles working its way up to his neck. Memories of their first meeting only seemed to make him clench his jaw more. "Did you know something that I don't? Because _this… this collection… of notes_... doesn't look right to me. Does _any_ of this look right to you?" Jean hit the table and sent the contents of his forgotten espresso slipping over the edge, sloshing over the top of the cup and narrowly avoiding the paper nearby.

Unaffected by his outburst, Annie hurriedly gathered Marco's belongings into one pile. She reached for the folded napkin and dabbed at the mess Jean had made. "Jean, this is a lot of detective work done by something trying to prove that something's there, rather than find if it is there at all." She sighed, throwing the wet napkin to the end of the table.

Jean assessed Annie's demeanour. She had an unusual way of staying calm, even after Jean had just gotten frustrated like that. He searched around the cafe and found no one looking at him. Reiner and Bertholdt seemed to be having a peaceful time, laughing and talking over two bottles of beer. Jean felt relieved to know that he hadn't ruined their evening.

"But _is_ there something there?" Jean felt like he was trying to grab at straws, and maybe that was exactly how Marco felt when he put all of this together. It was hard to think that the boy he grew up with and the man he knew would ever do all of this work for years for the sake of a hunch.

Annie pursed her lips again as if it stopped her from saying anything else. It frustrated Jean more than he wanted to admit. "I can't say that for sure." The spoon in her hand dropped from her fingers to the table, clattering around until it came to a stop. She rubbed at her neck, apparently surprised by her own actions.

Jean couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You're supposed to be the cop here." She was supposed to be the one with the theories, the one who knew what Marco was up to, and Jean guessed that he had probably worked his expectations up too high before he got here. Despite his fears, he at least expected Annie would have provided him with some answers.

Jean searched through the newspaper clippings until he found the familiar one they'd found when he'd first take a look at Marco's collection with Hanji and Armin. He tapped at it with a finger as if it was proving his point. "I remember his father catching that man years ago. Good with a knife is what Marco said."

His eyes turned to Annie, feeling like he might be accusing her but not caring in the least. "Your new partner Hitch came into our store suspecting Levi as a part of this new burglary. Second time we've been burgled in the last few years, but she comes in suddenly suspicious of a man that hasn’t lived that life for years." Jean scrambled Marco's newspaper clippings into some semblance of a timeline, as best as he could come up with.

Thinking aloud, Jean continued, trying to piece things together in his head as well as in front of him. "Marco spoke of his father coming home and writing at night... I don't think all of this is Marco's. I think some of this is his father's and he was just continuing his work." Jean tapped the pages and the clippings in quick succession. It all seemed to fit.

Annie shattered his thought process. "That's a lot of speculation, don't you think?" Her frown spoke of disagreement more than her words did as she tucked her hair behind her right ear. The doubt in her tone rubbed Jean the wrong way; a jagged surge of indignation ran through him at the curling of his fingers.

"Marco wanted to be like this father," Jean started to correct her, immediately leaning forward to gesture over the journal, voice growing more intense as he went on, "and if these details here are anything to go by, maybe that's what got his father killed." Choking on his words, Jean went silent and stared blankly before him. In a hushed tone he added, "Maybe..."

A short clearing of her throat was all Annie answered with at first. Jean watched as she resisted the urge to shake her head and raised her eyebrows instead. "Now you're the one sounding a little bit paranoid." Jean wondered whether she had ever sounded excited about anything in her life. How Marco put up with her for so long, Jean would never understand. She was beginning to get on his nerves with how much she disliked anything he brought to the table.

"Mina died in that raid too." Jean regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth, but he had a point to make. He needed to know and had to use whatever he had up his sleeve. "You weren't meant to be there, Annie. Who were you raiding, exactly?" Teething clenching on their own, Jean prepared himself for a dismissive answer.

Annie froze. Her breath worked its way out of her nose with a huff. Whether it was frustration or dismissal, Jean couldn't be sure. Her silence only seemed to highlight her cold demeanour. The change felt like a long time coming and was as unpleasant to sit across from as Jean might have expected.

"You want me to read over this stuff and show you what's here." Jean picked up the journal, flipped through it to watch her react, and threw the book down in front of her. It landed with a slap against the wooden table, drawing the attention of Reiner and Bert nearby. Jean didn't let their curiosity interrupt his interrogation. "Well here it is. Marco knew something was up. You were his partner. Why didn't you know?"

"I --" For the first time, Jean suspected he might have been too forceful, maybe had gone too far. She was gulping, nervously fidgeting with her hair, and unable to find any words to give him. Her fingers played with the edges of the book, as if too afraid to see the contents inside again.

Jean frowned, dissatisfied with her silence. She had spent the last few weeks, the last few moments with Marco. They had trained together, had been paired up together, and she had even managed to salvage Marco's ring, but she didn't know what Marco had been writing about all that time? Jean found it hard to believe, especially when she was coming to him to search through it now. "Why didn't you know?" he demanded again.

"I didn't come here to be interrogated," Annie threw back at him, her voice choking up, more enriched with emotion than Jean had heard all afternoon. He suddenly remembered how she had knelt before him and told him about Mina. Perhaps he had said too much. "I'll have a look at this in my own time," she stated, standing to leave and reaching over for Marco's things.

Jean immediately slammed his hand on top of them, refusing to be a passive piece in whatever was going on. If she wasn't about to tell him, he would find out himself, and there was no way that he'd be handing any of this over to her. "These were Marco's and now they're mine. You had a look. That's what you wanted, yes?"

Worrying her lip with her teeth, Annie gazed between the table and Jean's face. A thousand thoughts likely passed through her head before she nodded. Appearing defeated, she clenched her jaw and left, turning her head over her shoulder to look Jean in the eye one last time. She left the cafe with nothing but the image of Jean's face, tense from their encounter.

Reiner and Bert at the next table over watched her go. Their faces appeared just as confused as Jean felt about the whole thing. He could only wonder what they had heard the entire time they were just trying to enjoy their lunch. And there Jean was, making everyone within earshot wish they were elsewhere. Thankfully he didn't feel an ounce of regret.

Jean gathered up Marco's things, stuffing them back into the bag, trying to avoid gazing over Marco's handwriting longer than necessary. Mikasa's words echoed through his mind. 'His handwriting is beautiful'. The loops and the lines of Marco's script scribbled across the page. Somehow in the mess of it all Jean finally considered that maybe Mikasa was right.

Everything fit right back into the bag and it swung easily over his shoulder. He left his drink unfinished on the table, losing his appetite along with his faith that Annie had Marco's best interests at heart. Yet he left that thought behind as easily as if he had placed a cup on the table, and walking away from it feeling all the better for it.

On his way out he passed an apologetic smile in Bert and Reiner's direction. Both of them smiled in that tight-lipped way security guards seemed to do whenever he walked past. Neither of them seemed too worried about him, but their eyes refused to look away. With a gulp, Jean felt it best to address the issue, stopping gossip in its tracks. "The less you two know the better."

It seemed to satisfy their curiosity, much to Jean's relief. Their line of work let them see incidents a lot stranger than a man and a woman having an argument in a cafe. It was probably just another Friday afternoon to them.

Annie's words haunted him over the next few weeks. Her casual dismissal of any of Jean’s findings or ideas sat uncomfortably with him, as if the memory of their interaction teetered on an edge, balanced only by patience and a shared respect for Marco.

With more suspicion in his heart, Jean took to reading through each one of Marco's notebooks as the new moon approached. He found Mr. Bodt's handwriting in the first two, detailing suspicions of a gang of thieves. Crumpled newspaper articles adorned the pages, held on by faded and creased tape. They barely managed to remain attached with how dog-eared the pages were.

Over his notes, Jean found Marco's familiar hand in the comments above and below Mr. Bodt's own observations. His father’s notes detailed a man by the name of Levi, suspected of working for the group. The names Magnolia and Church weren't too far below, detailed descriptions by Marco bringing their character to life on the page, only to speak of their unfortunate demise on the next.

It was not a pleasant read in Jean's mind. The trail of bloodshed and vandalism was laid out in excruciating detail, from the crime scene sketches to the transcribed police reports. The first two notebooks, at closer inspection, were all of Mr. Bodt's work, right up until the week before he died. The last entry told of an officer taking bribes to look the other way, and by the bottom, in the familiar pencil, Marco had written 'Must be more to this'.

Jean kept reading on, finding Marco's own investigation had turned towards a group in Trost, suspected of dealings with the police. His notes were scattered, from the odd 'Must look into this' to 'What's the connection?', and became more and more unclear as the notebooks went on. Large scribbled words became more ragged; tears in the paper from hurried notes, possibly in the dark, increased in number every time Jean turned the page. It was one large mess of suspicion, and Jean couldn't help but wonder if Annie had been right about his paranoia.

Amidst Jean's descent into what had tainted Marco's last week alive, his coworkers made more efforts to be friendly. Cups of coffee found their way to his desk with genuine smiles. Invitations to gatherings seemed to pour in just as often with offers for lunches and dinners and trips out of town. Jean didn't know what to say or whether it was worth declining at all. He suspected that Marco might have lived like this, with people wanting to spend more time with him outside of work. It seemed so very like him.

Chris made it their personal mission to make their way past at least twice a week. It seemed word of his intervention had made it as far as the bank, and Chris took the news in the only way that Jean expected they could, making their best efforts to shower Jean with distractions. Their invites to drinks after work became a new tradition, alongside his lunch with Eren and Armin, and Jean had to wonder what he had done to deserve such attention.

When the night of the new moon came, it arrived quietly, the day itself passing like routine. Jean knew exactly what he had to do when he reached the cemetery. It had been sitting in his mind for days, perhaps weeks. The impending moment had built up in his head at every minute of calm that fell upon him. He had to know what Marco had to say about everything. Jean couldn't wait any longer.

His shoes slapped against the concrete on his walk over, his body leaning forward as if he was about to run. He might have if he wasn't so concerned that someone might be watching him, that they all might be watching him. Nervously, he scouted the horizon for any sign of Armin or Mikasa or any familiar face that might be out here to ensure that he wasn't visiting again. As good as their intentions had been, they had merely served to make Jean more self conscious about his visits. At least he knew this was something he had to do, for himself.

Marco's grave came into view and Jean began to jog. Impatience getting the better of him, he breathed heavily, wanting to be there sooner than he physically could be. The sun setting sent his shadow across the grass beside him, long, dark, spindly legs criss-crossing across the bright green. Like a strange figure, it followed him and reminded him once more to scout around him. No one was within sight.

Crickets that had begun to sing grew quiet at Jean's approach. Their night's song would not be sung tonight, though Jean would have appreciated the company for what he was about to do. He surged forward once within reach of Marco's headstone and clasped his hand onto the stone. The sting of contact pulsed through his hand but Jean ignored it. All he wanted was to see that familiar glow, to see Marco again.

Answering him almost immediately, white specks began to form, unfurling and swirling in place, forming the semblance of fingers. Jean gulped down his worries, breath growing louder as he forced it out his nose. The hand formed before him as it always did, but Jean couldn't wait any longer.

One hand still on the headstone, Jean lunged for where Marco's wrist would be, daring to grab something that wasn't there, something he couldn't touch. His hand found contact, fingers fitting around air. A blue tinge surged through what would be Marco's fingers and like a wave, specks came out of nowhere, creating one continuous chain reaction through his form. White speck after white speck shimmered into place from Marco's hand, filling his form in seconds like a falling of dominoes, rigid and solid, unlike Jean had ever seen before.

A second wave of colour rippled through and formed the Marco that Jean knew. His hand still lay wrapped around Marco's wrist. It felt cool -- not warm, as Marco used to feel -- but Jean could have sworn that he truly held something in his hand. That something, he knew, was Marco.

Marco's confused visage gaped at Jean's hand and his face. Lost for words, they stared at each other, unable to explain how Jean managed to hold onto Marco, unable to understand what had changed. Light blue glowed around Marco like a silver lining, lighting the grass by their feet and disappearing just as quickly.

Jean hadn't come for a light show. He hadn't come to stare or wait or wonder about the mystical nature of all of this. He had answers that he was seeking and this time he would get them. Determined, stubborn, and hoping in the deepest part of his heart, Jean tugged on Marco's arm and found it moved with him. He ignored the questions that tried to stop him and demanded as loudly as his voice would allow in that moment, "Tell me what happened!"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The penultimate chapter, last one before the end, just in time for Marco's birthday :D I'm so glad to have finally written this one. It took a while.
> 
> \---
> 
> If you liked this and want to share it, you can find the Tumblr post [here](https://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/post/146010570147/see-you-when-you-get-here-chapter-8-the).
> 
> I would love to hear your feedback here or you can also find me on [Tumblr](https://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](http://twitter.com/foxberryblue) or on my writing only blog [Foxberry Writes](http://foxberrywrites.tumblr.com/).


	9. The Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ _He wondered at the absurdity of it all, the strange turn in being able to touch Marco, and whether he would have been able to do this earlier if he had been so insistent on grabbing him then. Whatever magic this was, it tingled through his nerves, for better or for worse._ ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to release this chapter as part of JeanMarco Week 2016 for the Spirit theme, but I ended up finishing it late. Happy reading!
> 
> [Please check out the matching art for this chapter on Tumblr](https://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/post/152452206772/see-you-when-you-get-here-has-finally-come-to-an).

**\- 24th March 2014 -**

The sound of regulation boots on concrete had always been reassuring to Marco. Something about the way their rubber kissed the ground and made sounds of anguish as they reluctantly removed themselves from the surface. Everything about walking in those boots felt right, but maybe that was simply the feeling of the uniform against his skin. Marco could never be sure.

Beside his fellow officers he still felt like the greenhorn of the bunch. He hadn’t known the inner workings of Trost like they had for years, but he would catch up to them soon enough. He had the drive and the purpose and if he was lucky, he’d turn out as good a cop as his dad was. Mama still held her doubts, and as far as he was concerned, she had every reason. It only made him want to work harder and make them both proud.

Today felt like another step forward in the right direction. Decked out in new gear, Marco let his eyes adjust to the darkness of the night. Surrounded by his peers and his superiors, Marco felt a child amongst them as they whispered to one another against the walls of the warehouse. He gripped his gun down by his side in both hands; he never thought he would be doing this so early in his career.

Water on the concrete beneath their feet gleamed under the orange streetlights, the sky above dark with the new moon. Slivers of light traced the faces of his colleagues nearby and the brick wall they leaned against. He could make out Hitch’s blonde curls and sly smirk, the touch of worry on Mina’s face as she glanced at the door, and Annie’s clenched jaw as she pressed her head against the brickwork and stared up at the sky.

“What’s got you distracted?” Marco leaned to whisper in her ear. Annie unclenched her jaw and let her mouth relax with a sigh. It softened the tension worked into her face, but the worries on her mind still flickered in her eyes. “You were so keen about this last week. What’s up?”

Her sigh was slow and shaky when it left her lips. As a cold look took to her face, Marco almost expected to see her breath in the air. “It’s really dark tonight, isn’t it?” Her eyes opened wider, trying to take in as much of the sky above as possible to commit it to memory. Nothing about her looked like she wanted to be here.

“Yeah… that works better for us, right?” Marco asked with a concerned frown, eyebrows drawing together. His superiors stood by the wall and gestured to one another. None of them seemed the least bit fazed, occasionally sending glances down their way, checking on their supplementary officers. Marco couldn’t deny they had a certain sense of ease while the four of them standing there almost shook in anticipation. He tried his best to provide some kind of encouragement. “We’ve planned this for months. We’ve trained for this...”

Annie nodded, but her eyes turned to the apartment buildings across the street. Their dull grey walls melded with each other like they were one long block of brick. Their windows reflected dim light, their residents already asleep at this late hour. Annie couldn’t seem to look away from it. “But have we? Really?”

Marco couldn’t be sure of what was going on in her mind. This was not like her. She’d always been a tad strange and even slack at times, but this was something new, different. “Don’t tell me you’re having doubts _now_?” he asked, tilting his head and wondering what she might be looking at in the distance, if she was looking out there at all.

Calmly, she peered back at him, a hint of a sad smile on her lips. “It’s just nerves.” Not a part of her was shaking, though. Her blue eyes didn’t look nervous at all. She was waiting for something, and whatever it was, she wasn’t nervous about it. Perhaps she was running something over in her head again, as she often tended to do. Scenario after scenario playing out to work out the best plan of action. Marco wouldn’t put it past her.

He questioned her response, voice thick with doubt. “You? Nerves?” He wouldn’t let her get past what he noticed in her. _He_ was the one that suspected there were more answers within that warehouse. There was no reason for _Annie_ to be like this, as far as he knew.

He worried for a moment that she might have found his notebooks, filled with notes and theories about the robberies he had been following for years. They had worked closely together in the last few weeks and she had only grown more and more curious about what it was he wrote in his books. If he had the choice, he would never let her see them. That was his own battle. Who knew what trouble that might drag her into.

“Keep it down,” Hitch hushed them across Mina’s chest. She grit her teeth, baring them as a kind of warning. Hitch took her job seriously, despite the laughter and the teasing when the officers senior weren’t around. Finding some comfort in Annie being just as much of a slacker as she wished she could be, they’d grown close in their years in the academy together. From where Annie had begun, Marco was happy she had at least found someone to associate with. Let alone the relationship with Mina that had been blossoming over the last few months.

Meanwhile Mina -- somehow too sweet for Marco or anyone to consider her any real threat as a cop -- seemed oddly calm. Perhaps her nerves weren’t showing through today, or Marco just couldn’t see them. Even she appeared ready to get in there and take on the role they had been given. The primary squad would make their way through and secure the warehouse. They were merely secondary, just in case, unlikely to come across anything or anyone along the way. They’d simply search for the evidence they needed. That was it.

  
Marco felt so strange among them. He’d been working up to this from the moment the opportunity arose. There was no way he could back down now, but everything in his body was telling him that something wasn’t right. Annie’s trance only added to his concerns. Marco wasn’t about to let this go. He nudged Annie’s side and hissed, “You’ve been jumpy all day. What’s wrong?”

Her eyes glanced at him, but her head remained fixed, jaw clenching tight. A low hum and a huff out her nose told him she didn’t have any answer, not one that would make sense to him anyway. She’d always been hard to read and tonight was no exception. “We’re not meant to be here,” she mumbled, and passed a look over to Mina. Worry flashed across her features and she began to dig her teeth into her bottom lip.

Leaning closer, Marco tilted his head. He lowered his voice for just the two of them, watching the others to make sure they couldn’t hear. “But this is an opportunity. You said so yourself.” She had been the one to hurry over to tell him about a list she had gotten them onto, without his permission of course. It had been the first time Marco had really seen some form of enthusiasm for advancement from her. This Annie he saw now was not the Annie he had seen then.

“Mmmm,” she hummed in agreement. Annie gave him no indication whether she agreed with him or not, simply frowning thoughtfully at the road at their feet. For the first time in a long time, it seemed like the uniform wore her, crumpled by the hunch in her shoulders, somehow oddly fitting. She had always suited the uniform, had the right demeanour for it, but now there was something about it Marco couldn’t put his finger on.

Marco bit his lip, unable to pinpoint exactly where all of this was coming from. A quick glance over to the others, spotting Mina looking so prepared for the worst with the beginnings of a shake in her arm, seemed to provide an answer. “It fell into our laps just like that. You can’t say it wasn’t meant to be,” he sounded out, repeating words she had told him so many times before. This time he was the one to trying to convince the other it was a good time, an opportunity, something they couldn’t turn down. In his own mouth, it merely felt like a dull echo.

Annie cleared her throat and gazed up at him, assessing him with a twitch of her eye. Her mouth opened and shut itself again when a flicker of an expression came across her face and her eyes fell to the floor. “It wasn’t meant to be like this.” She glanced over her shoulder at Mina, letting the faintest of smiles tint the concern on her face. For a second Marco could have sworn he saw a flicker of worry, her jaw unclenching and a softness taking to her features. It disappeared as soon as he squinted to make it out better in the dim light.

“What do you mean?” Marco asked, letting his voice rise in his concern. He leaned closer and reached out to grab her shoulder. He had to know some answers. They were about to work as a team, and if there was something she knew that he didn’t, he needed to know what that was. Communication was always key, and there was something she wasn’t telling him.

Mina and Hitch glanced his way with frowns of their own. Hitch tilted her head towards the entry point, signalling they were about to move. Annie echoed their sentiments with a glare and hissed “shhhh” under her breath. She tapped across her pockets and over her vest. The black against the blue blended in the dim light. They all looked like one big blur of fabric and metal. If only their nerves were as impenetrable.

Marco did the same, following the rest of them in rote while his mind wandered. This mission was important to him and he wasn’t about to have Annie get in the way by omitting important information. “Annie.” Saying her name was all he could manage, so he hoped that she would somehow hear the concern in his voice. She didn’t know what lay within the warehouse, and perhaps it was hypocritical of him to expect her to share information with him when he hadn’t been able to do the same.

She refused to face him this time. Instead she moved into a stance and nodded to their superiors who began to make signals towards the door. The first group was already making their way in. “We’ve a job to do, Bodt,” she barked as quietly as she could manage. Marco took it as the end of their conversation. There was no more that he could get out of her like this. Not now. Not where they were right now.

Marco nodded and took his signal to stay silent. Annie refused to look at him after that, even as they began to enter the compound, even as they made their way past the doors of the warehouse under the directions of their superiors. Despite all the distractions of his surroundings, Marco couldn’t shake the thought that Annie was not herself. For Annie to be fazed like this, something had to be off -- with her, with the raid, something. Or maybe he was too focussed on what this raid could mean for him if he were right.

Mina and Hitch took off ahead, ever eager to please their superior officers, and disappeared into the dark shadows of the warehouse. Brick walls rose up around Marco as he entered, a steel ceiling rising up to a point Marco couldn’t see in the dark, towering above them like it could fall at any moment. The sound of the street faded with every step into the shadows of the warehouse.

If his suspicions were correct, this warehouse housed the same gang that his father had been looking for. It seemed too perfect to be true, to just have this opportunity land right in front of him. Yet here he was, dressed, prepped, and sneaking through the dark caverns of an apparently disused warehouse.

The chill seemed to seep through Marco’s uniform when he took the turn through the first door. Gun tightly held in his hand and pointed at the ground, a tenseness washed through his arms. There was something about the echo of voices off the walls, the whispers of his colleagues from the corridors, and the buzz of noise in his earpiece. He could just make out a few voices but nothing that made sense to him in the distortion.

Trying to catch up to the others in the darkness, eyes still adjusting to the way the light fell in through the windows and sprawled across the floor, he caught a glimpse of the sheen of Annie’s hair. She turned a corner to the left while the boots of the rest of their squad went right. Whatever she was following, she was determined not to be heard or seen, sneaking with soft careful steps through the doorway.

Now wasn’t the time for her to go off on some random hunch of hers. The others were following directions, taking off to the right and disappearing further into the shadows. Each of them stalked through the warehouse silently, guided by Mina at the front, listening to their instructions in their earpieces. Marco, however, stalled and dug his shoes into the ground. They’d barely walked in and no one else had noticed Annie walking off from the group. He was going to have to follow her and keep her in line.

The groan he emitted shook through his chest. Taking a deep breath, he started towards the door, leaning forward to check everything was clear before moving further across the dusty concrete floor. The warehouse appeared to be abandoned. Far off orange light streamed through cracked windows, catching on loose rubble scattered over the ground. It crunched beneath his every footstep, and it was all he could hear until strained voices filtered through the air.

Marco took a moment to fiddle with the ring on his left hand, moving it bit by bit with the tip of his thumb as his right hand held on tighter to his gun. There was an itch starting in his hand but he would have to ignore it for now. His hands grasped onto his gun again, drawing it up and ready for whatever might be around the next corner. He halted by a second doorway when he made out hushed whispers and found that he was unable to hear his other colleagues in the distance. He was alone, then, and would have to deal with this appropriately.

“What are you doing here?” a woman’s voice demanded with the scratching sound of gravel. Her foot must have been grinding into the ground, signalling her displeasure at finding someone here. Marco had read all of his father’s journals by now, but hadn’t found any reference to a woman other than someone by the name of Isabel Magnolia. It couldn’t have been her, though. His father had written about the unfortunate experience of finding her body. This had to be someone else.

Further shuffling answered the woman. There had to be a second pair of feet, maybe more by the sound of it. A deep voice answered her with tension resonating in his tone, “Checking progress. If we don’t then…” The man trailed off and the sound of a step followed. Marco could feel his breath catching in his throat. He wasn’t meant to be hearing this, but these could be the people his father was looking for.

Peeking around the corner, he swore that he had heard that voice before, but he could only see their shadows. The woman’s voice echoed against the walls with a hiss. “I can’t be seen talking to you. Go!” Her silhouette appeared shorter against the other two Marco could spy from his position. An arm threw itself towards an exit, a demonstrative gesture of her simmering frustration.

A new voice that seemed to warble with either nervousness or anticipation spoke up, barely audible to Marco’s ears over the earpiece rattling away. “Look, Ann, we need to move everything before they find it.” The taller of the two men, thin but not lanky, stepped forward to place a hand upon her shoulder.

The other man, stocky and solid on his feet, spoke with his deep tone again. “I can’t be connected to this.” He shuffled to the side, distancing himself from them all yet somehow drawing closer. He didn’t look like he knew where to stand.

She stepped back from them, hand moving to her hip. The movement looked so familiar to Marco; the motion appeared to be one more out of habit than threat. The light caught her figure and highlighted every fold and crease in the coarse fabric of her clothes.

A tense stomach churning interrupted Marco’s thoughts. It burned, sending shivers through his body, everything drawing tight though his fingers loosened on his gun. The name ‘Ann’ stood out above all else and seared in his mind. The woman’s stature, the way she wore her hair, her gestures, and that voice, hushed but familiar, were all hers. That “someone else” was Annie.

“And neither can I. Move yourselves out of my sight.” Her voice cut through the air, through the noise in his ears and the sounds of whispers turning into concerned murmuring. It had all of that same chill and directness Marco had grown to know, even grown fond of, but now it sent waves of nausea roiling through his stomach.

An exhale expelled itself from his lungs, hitting the cold concrete wall near his face and brushing back against his nose. He hadn’t realised how close he had gotten to the wall. The grip on the gun in his hands had loosened and in the darkness he suddenly became aware of how loud his breathing had become. It huffed in and out of his nose, almost whistling as it tried to keep up with the nervous deprivation of air overtaking his chest. The overwhelming urge to react to what he saw -- to move, to say something in amongst the sinking feeling in his stomach -- took him over before he could think better of it.

“Annie…” The words left his lips like the sound of a soft kiss, too dry for the damp room and the scattering of broken furniture his eyes caught on. Looking everywhere but at her seemed to delay knowing the inevitable. Nothing had prepared him for this.

She froze, hand dropping from her hip, before her head slowly turned towards him. He had nowhere else to go without giving himself away and her eyes found him before he could even make an attempt. Her jaw fell slack, lips falling open to rush breathy, surprised words out of her mouth: “Fuck, go, go!” With a panicked swing of her arm, she gestured towards the door, signalling the two men to leave.

Marco entered the room slowly, catching Annie’s gaze and finding neither of them could look away. He didn’t know what he saw or what he heard, but he couldn’t let them leave, either. Shaking and unsure of every decision he would have to make, he lifted his gun as a warning. As he approached, he caught glimpses of the men, one with brown hair and one with blond, and knew for certain he had seen them before. The men, however, took no time in lingering and jogged backwards before sprinting out of the room.

Returning his attention to Annie, he approached her as he might have any perp, cautious, gun drawn, and observing her every movement. He couldn’t ignore the tense feeling he’d had since he’d heard about Jean’s workplace burglary. It had come right in the middle of his research into his father’s past. If this, where he stood now face to face with Annie, was the source of the jewellery robberies his father had investigated, then Annie and those men must be involved. They were too young to have been involved back then, but if they were part of it now, he had to wonder what part she played and whether this meant anything for Jean.

“You scared them off,” Annie smiled through the concern on her face, laughing it off as if Marco hadn’t just seen her shoo them away. Her fingers drew back to her gun, tracing over the edge with a light touch, ready to draw it if she felt threatened. Marco knew her too well to test her and lowered his gun to his side.

He continued approaching, catching a glimpse of her face in the light from the broken window behind her. For all they knew in the quiet sound of cars on the street and footsteps in the background, no one else was around to hear them talking. “That’s not what I saw,” he answered through gritted teeth.

Annie pursed her lips. In the darkness she appeared just as displeased as when a physical challenge was presented to her. This wasn’t something she wanted to deal with. Marco was never supposed to find her, not here, not now. This was not part of her plan. Yet her body tensed and her heels dug into the ground, more serious in defending herself than he had ever seen in training.

“Get out of here, Marco,” she hissed. The warning clear on her tongue. Whatever bond they had was becoming frayed at the edges, unravelling itself as Marco questioned every single moment they had had at the academy. He’d even told Jean about her. His eyes narrowed when she spoke again. “Find the others.”

Trying to play the game and keep face, she seemed to be trying to direct him away. Hints sat on her tongue, but he wasn’t about to simply take what she had to say. He knew her better than that and couldn’t let her brush him off to continue whatever plan she had. He should be chasing the strange men she was meeting with, yet his feet fixed to their position as he exchanged a long gaze with the person he thought was his partner.

Her mouth opened to speak and shut at the sound of indistinct yelling coming from the distance. Neither of them moved. Their standoff kept them grounded, unable to move, unable to look away, reading every twitch of muscle as they each waited for the other to break the tense air clinging around them.

A gunshot pierced through the warehouse. One followed by another, and another. Where Marco expected an echo, all he heard were the confused cries of his colleagues, each voice mingled in the cacophony of sound that rang from the far end of the warehouse. Marco might have been with them if he had gone the way he should have. A pang of guilt rippled through him. Someone was hurt, by the sound of it, and he could’ve been there to help them.

It wasn’t until Marco saw the confused, horrified contortion of an expression on Annie’s face that Marco knew this wasn't what she’d been expecting. She froze, blinking and listening, too caught up in listening to be aware of Marco at all. He’d never seen her so surprised. Perhaps she had heard something he didn’t. He had no time to think about that.

Marco took the opportunity and ran across the room. If he could just disarm her, then they could talk on even ground. With the gun now in her grasp, he couldn't guarantee she wouldn't use it against him, even as a threat. He would have to disarm her with whatever it took.

The gravel slid beneath his boots, his feet grinding against the concrete, stones skittering across the ground. He shoved his gun into its holster, freeing his hand and tensing his shoulders for impact. His right hand made the first move. It arched across her body, clutching tightly around her wrist while his body turned. His left fist dug into her side, just below the stomach, and sent the air out of her lungs. She was used to hand-to-hand combat, and if Marco was to have any chance, he had to weaken her quickly.

Annie responded with a shove of her shoulder and tried to wriggle free from his grasp. Aiming a few blows at his stomach, she clipped him with her knuckles before digging her elbow into his gut. They struggled, pushing and pulling and trying to outmaneuver each other. Her grip loosened on the gun and Marco swooped in to grasp at it only for Annie to slap it away. It slid with a scrape across the room and out of reach.

She threw a punch his way and he dodged and grabbed her wrist. There was a warning in the grunt he responded with, not knowing that was ever something he could do, a sound that would ever come out of him. He knew there was nothing he could say to get her to stop fighting. She knew his moves, and proved that with every jab and dodge she made, wiggling out of his grasp within moments. Where Marco had the strength and stamina, she had the speed and the determination. Between the two of them, she had won more fights. It felt odd for this one to not be another practice spar.

Whatever she was doing here, talking to these familiar strangers, it couldn’t be any good. Marco knew that, but in the back of his mind he couldn't forget their time in the academy. Despite the circumstances and the fists she was throwing at him, he would give her the benefit of the doubt. “Let’s go, Annie.” He grabbed at her wrist, pulling her back towards where they’d come in. It was the best he could hope for. “I have questions for you.”

Annie cocked her head to the side and questioned him with her eyes. As much as he tried, he could never sound authoritative enough to really get through to her. Perhaps he had now. “Bodt, we’re in the field.” Her voice held far more ice in it than he remembered and it stopped him cold.

The noises from the far end of the warehouse grew closer. Streaks of shadow rushed by in the corner of his eye. He knew the steps of his colleagues anywhere, but these ones were hurried, panicked steps of new recruits and not those of the confident police officers they had become. All of that build up was swept away with the smell of gunpowder.

Annie said what they were clearly both thinking, forgetting their fight -- in favour of terror and surprise. “Shit.” She immediately took the slump in Marco’s shoulders as an opportunity to wriggle away. Her feet slapped against the ground as she ran, stumbling forward and off balance. Her body froze then turned towards to the side door, a stream of light sneaking across the ground and nudging against her shoe.

Marco thought for a moment she might have reconsidered leaving, but the familiar voices of the men he had seen before called through to her. None of it made sense in the throbbing sound that seemed to dull his hearing. Glimpses of them disrupted the light on the ground and for a moment, the smell of smoke and the sound of approaching footsteps seemed to freeze time itself. Marco had to concentrate on breathing just to keep air in his lungs when he yelled after her. “Leonhardt.”

Steadfast in her position, Annie turned back to take one more glance at Marco, her face obscured by the stark shadow of the warehouse, hanging over her features like a veil. Whatever expression took to her lips, Marco couldn’t tell, but it was a warning nonetheless. “Go!”

Even when she had been caught out like this, she sounded concerned. Annie had always held a kind of wall between them. Marco might have caught glimpses of the warmth behind that tall icy wall she put up when she thought anyone might be looking, yet this was something else.

She made to move, but when Marco refused to move himself, she faltered, hesitating with the tip of one boot touching the ground. “What?” he asked, not sure if he was demanding or asking in surprise. He could hear her chest heaving from where he stood. Her chest rose and fell, her lips parting around a wordless answer.

Dread drove her voice to a pitch Marco was certain he had never heard before. “They’ve found us.” Her head snapped back towards the sound of the footsteps, strands of her hair falling from her bun. Her body kept moving, slight bobs towards the door with hesitations to move at all. She didn’t want to run but she didn’t want to stay either. Marco didn’t know what he should be doing. His fingers fell to his gun to find some form of comfort in the confusion.

Finding himself clinging to his gun, trying to reach for some kind of understanding and feeling metal against his fingertips, he wondered how everything had come to this moment. He had no more answers than he’d had before, knew barely enough to make any kind of conclusions beyond Annie somehow being involved. This wasn’t what he wanted walking in here. He’d wanted some kind of closure. Now would not be that moment.

Making his way towards Annie, Marco barely heard the shuffling of footsteps approaching until the gruff sound of deep voices followed. Strange men were suddenly gathered in the shadows. He was halfway to her when he noticed them. Annie’s hands were somehow already on his arms trying to drag him away. The look in her eyes drowned in the black of the night, the shine on the white of her eyes the only indication Marco had.

His gun felt cold in his hands. His fingers pressed tight, willing for the shaking sliding down his shoulders to not loosen his grip. By his side, the gun still felt wrong. In any situation he would rather take them by any other means, but an unknown threat by the group that likely killed his father was not something he could take likely. The bile at the thought alone made him feel sick.

Annie gave one last tug before her hands seemed to fade from his arms, like they could no longer touch him. The men outside called to her, determined and desperate. “Annie!”

Their voices were immediately lost as the strangers approached them, men Annie knew and was afraid of. They yelled a series of jumbled words and orders. Marco could make out none of it. Instead he shakily raised his gun from his side and answered with as straight a voice he could, taking words straight from their training, “Trost Police! Put down your weapons.” None of them responded. He could only feel Annie’s presence leaving him. He repeated himself louder. “Put down your weapons!”

All he saw was a gun. The tip of the revolver poked out in the sliver of light running across the metal. A flash followed with a loud bang, a burst of smoke, and then his arm felt hot and wet and wrong. The grip on his gun was gone.

He still couldn't make out their faces with the haze over his eyes, blistering and stinging at his vision. His head clouded with everything and anything. His arm was hot and stinging and he could feel himself falling, burning. Gasps surrounded him but they didn't sound like his own voice, nor did it feel like he was breathing anymore.

A hand fumbled over his chest. It might have been his. His vest tightened on his chest and the hand fumbled at the straps, undoing them with weak fingers, pressing over his chest that grew warmer at the touch.

Feeling the haze dragging down his eyes into the darkness, Marco willed himself to rub the ring on his left hand. The voice that was no longer his spoke the only thought in his mind, “Jean.” The haze clouded his vision, darker and blacker than anything else he had ever seen, until he could no longer open his eyes.

 

* * *

 

**\- Present Day -**

Jean squeezed Marco’s wrist, still unable to believe his impromptu gesture in a fit of frustration had paid off like this. Marco’s story held the floor. Not a single cricket chirped, not a blade of grass moved, and Jean himself wasn't sure if he could breathe under the tension in the air. He blurted out the words waiting on the tip of his tongue, “And that's everything?”

Marco nodded through the dusting of specks seeming to hover around him. “Everything I saw.” There was a kind of sadness in his lips that Jean hadn't seen before, a slight frown of disappointment or regret. Whatever it was, Jean didn't like it.

The grit of the headstone concrete dug into his hand as he clenched onto the edge. He might have broken it if it was made of something else. “So she didn’t…?” Jean wasn't sure what he was asking. Marco had told him that they fought, that Annie left, that she was called away. It still didn't sit well with him that she was right there, regardless of whether Marco saw her or not after that.

“No…?” Marco answered as a question, his features asking more of Jean than he could form with his tongue. “It was as I told you.” The specks hovering around him pulled back to join with him again. It was the most solid Jean had seen him, or even felt him. He couldn't recall the last time they had been able to touch like this, where he was left wondering if the hint of electricity came from Marco’s form or the sensation of touch alone.

Fingers trembling a little, Jean let it all sink in. Finally knowing what had happened felt oddly comforting, but still distressing. He wasn’t sure what to feel or how to process all of this new information. “Right…” he said with a light squeeze of Marco’s wrist to ground himself. He wondered at the absurdity of it all, the strange turn in being able to touch Marco, and whether he would have been able to do this earlier if he had been so insistent on grabbing him then. Whatever magic this was, it tingled through his nerves, for better or for worse.

Marco clenched his fist reflexively and smiled in that calm but worried way he always had when Jean said something that concerned him. “And those… guys...” His voice trailed off into the breeze, soft like a whisper, carrying on it like a dandelion seed. His eyes dropped to his feet as if to give his lips time to pout before he looked up again.

“Yeah? You said they looked familiar?” Jean asked, prompting for more information. There were things he could ask that he might never want to hear the answer to, but he knew that knowing would be better than never knowing at all. He’d rather rule out his suspicions. Either way there’d be regret. There was no changing that.

Marco nodded, catching Jean’s eyes with raised eyebrows and an apprehensive expression. He hummed thoughtfully, the sound catching on the wind and resonating with it like a two part harmony. “Mmm… Tall guy and a buff guy… I dunno… I swear I've seen them near your work.” He shrugged his shoulders and let his eyes fall to the ground again. As vague as his answer was, at least it was something. Jean couldn’t expect every detail out of Marco, not with what had happened and how. He considered himself grateful to have any idea at all.

“I was worried,” Marco added with a sheepish grin. His face had softened, eyes seeming to peer through Jean’s own in search of his soul. There was a kind of clarity in them that Jean had always seen, just behind the rich brown that glowed orange in the sunlight. There was a way they could perceive the world with the quickest of glances and when they turned on him, they saw every nick, every bump, every flaw and found them wonderful. Marco smiled in those eyes when he added, “about you.”

Jean’s heart fluttered in an offbeat syncopation. It hadn’t been long since they had last seen each other. It couldn’t have been more than a month, considering Marco’s schedule. Yet the time that has passed between their meetings had been filled with worry and information that Jean had barely begun to divulge. He was certain Marco knew of all of it. He had his own answers to find. “Near work?”

Marco nodded again. One hand slipped up the other arm and rubbed at it as if trying to brush away the embarrassment or even guilt that his body seemed to be riddled with. His shoulders hunched forward while his feet fidgeted on the ground, the grass moving at the behest of the wind. It almost looked like he might have moved the blades himself, but Jean knew better.

“Security I think? I don’t remember their names.” The mention of security from Marco’s lips made Jean’s stomach turn. There were two distinct men that came to mind that might match that description while also working near him. They’d been there for as almost as long as he had. Only a few years older, they had come in to chat over the years, becoming friends with Connie and Sasha, giving updates to Erwin, and laughing at Hanji’s jokes. Jean felt his hand clenching but couldn’t move. Their names couldn’t even pop into his head at the sheer confusion, even rage, that they might have been involved somehow. Jean wasn’t sure what he felt at that moment and let it simmer in silence.

After a few deep breaths, he asked the first thing on his mind, desperately needing confirmation of the image Marco had painted for him. “They were there?” He swallowed the thick lump growing in his throat to no avail. A sickly sweat seemed to cling to his skin, in his skin, playing across his nerves like pins and needles. Their names fell from his mind to his tongue and he spat them out as soon as they formed, “Bertholdt and Reiner?”

Marco’s mouth fell open and said more than if he had said anything at all. There was a certainty there that didn’t need explaining. Marco didn’t want to make the conclusion, knowing full well what that would mean for Jean. It would explain why Marco had been so worried, and perhaps why he hadn’t said anything earlier. If he’d had his suspicions then, this had only added to them, confirmed them perhaps. Jean couldn’t be sure what was going on in his head, regardless of how clear his eyes seemed to be.

A nervous jitter danced across his tongue when Marco spoke again. “I couldn’t make them out exactly, but it might have been.” Uncertainty played with his tone and tinted every word. Jean might have been fooled by the way Marco sounded if he didn’t know him as well as he did. The worry was still in Marco, still trying to protect Jean from the darkest of the world, like it might all collapse if he found out the people that he knew might not be saints. Somehow that lessened the anger simmering in his chest and coiling in his hand.

Before Jean could speak, Marco asked something more of him. “Can we not talk about this?” He bit his lip. Such a human gesture that made his lips look as soft and subtle as if he was still… whole. Jean caught himself before he could think the words real or human or _here_. He was certain Marco was still all of those things. If he allowed himself the time and the patience, he knew he would only grow more certain of it and that it would resonate as an ache in his chest.

“I want to talk to you,” Marco continued, moving his hand to place it on top of Jean’s. It tingled like it was barely there, like the touch of a moth’s wings. Jean’s grip immediately softened. Marco simply smiled once again and drew closer, rubbing his hand lightly up Jean’s arm. “About _this_. About us.”

Jean sighed, feeling the doubt creeping into him, poisoning how good it felt to have Marco touch him again. “What’s there left to talk about?” He hadn’t meant to sound sour, but hopes were doomed to spoil if they were kept for too long. He regathered himself and added with a sigh, “This is…” ‘It,’ he meant to say, but Jean kept the word to himself. He didn’t want to admit it, let alone say it to the hopeful, pleasant gaze he found himself faced with. There wasn’t going to be more than this, than meeting up in a cemetery, pretending this had some normality.

Despite Jean’s tone, Marco smiled as if none of it mattered, that only Jean did. So they spoke of hope of the future, of the restrictive and limited one they had, and whatever that meant for the both of them. Talk of picnics and sunrises and late nights gazing up at the stars filled their night. They were prospects that Jean could grab hold of, small buoys of hopes in a sea of doubt. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

Returning to work for the next week or so felt like a chore for Jean, more so than usual. Watch parts seemed to go missing and screwdrivers fell apart in his hands. He knew it had all become too much when he was caught yelling mid-sentence at once particularly annoying flying battery catch. Connie’s hand on his shoulder told him instantly that anyone else out on the floor had heard him too. Perhaps he had let the idea of Bertholdt and Reiner being involved get to him more than he had been willing to admit to himself. Enough to yell at inanimate objects at least.

“You doing all right, man?” Connie asked through a chuckle. He’d always suspected aloud to anyone that would listen that if one day Jean was going to crack it would be over a watch and he would be yelling something inappropriate. It seemed he was right. Jean couldn't even remember what he’d been saying and immediately froze at the thought of Connie gaining some kind of ammunition against him. “I had to tell a lady that we get really excited over the work that we do behind the scenes.” One of his eyebrows quirked upwards when his eyes settled on Jean’s face, demanding an explanation.

Jean shrugged and placed down his tools with a clang. There was no use continuing when he was tense like this. It would only take another bout of frustration before he broke a $5000 watch or something equally as ridiculous and expensive. “Yeah, I’m good. I think I need a break.” His hands grabbed the edge of his worktable. The array of tools across his desk were little more than a mess. Parts had fallen over, broken tools lay to the side, and his work notes lay discarded in crumpled pieces of paper.

Connie reached out to touch one of the loose watch links like it might bite him. “Dude, you and me are gonna get lunch before you…” He pulled a face and trailed his hand back to him across the desk. “... Start eating _this_.” He stepped backwards and gestured towards the door, then leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed across his chest.

Jean pushed himself back from his desk in defeat. Connie had a point. If he didn’t get away from the desk he might very well lose something and that could only be bad for business. Standing up from his desk, he chucked a smile Connie’s way. “You paying, Con-man?” He chuckled and raised an eyebrow in Connie’s direction, expecting a no and waiting for it to pay off.

“What do I look like to you?” he spat back with an unimpressed expression and a tilt of his head. Backing out of the door, he shrugged and turned around with his hands in his pockets.

Jean patted his slacks to check for his wallet, finding it still in the right pocket. “Do you really want the answer to that?” he asked, and followed Connie out to the shop floor. It was quiet at this time in the afternoon. Sasha nodded their way as they wandered through, busy showing off a series of engagement rings to a couple who ummed and ahhed in the quiet store. She wished them off with nod as they left the shop.

Walking out of the shop felt odd now that the information about Bertholdt and Reiner had surfaced. He suspected he might run into them at any moment, that he might find himself questioning what their job was. They hadn’t been the best of security guards, that was certain. All it would take would be one glance at them and Jean couldn’t be sure what he would end up saying or doing.

Connie started telling him the story of his latest escapades. Something about a hiking trip up some mountain or another that took some degree of time at some degrees of difficulty. Admittedly Jean could hardly say he was listening. Paying attention had become harder since Marco had told him exactly what he wanted to know (and several more things that he wished he could forget).

“So what did you feel up for?” Connie asked suddenly, casting an accusative glance Jean’s way.  He then adjusted his lapel and led them towards a small cafe. Walking ahead, he gestured towards a round wooden table by the cafe window. The chair he drew back scraped against the shopping centre tiles. His jacket slipped off his shoulders in one swift movement, something Jean had seen him do countless of times. If Jean had any of the same kind of suaveness, he would have done the same. Instead he watched Connie fold his jacket over the seat and practically jump into his chair.

Jean shook out of his daze. The look on Connie’s face told him he had been caught not listening to the adventure story and he thanked his friend under his breath for not calling him out on it. Scratching his hairline, he pouted his lips. “Burgers sounds good to me. You?” He took a seat opposite Connie and leaned onto the table.

Jean’s thoughts turned back to Bertholdt and Reiner. They had sat so close to him when he had his meeting with Annie in a cafe just like this one. His stomach dropped at the thought. It sank like a heavy stone and sent a wave of nausea through him. They might have heard it all, they might have seen some of it, they might have intended to be nearby in case anything came out. Connie deserved to be left out of it, as much as Jean wanted to tell him.

He’d known Connie for years. There were few others he would probably trust more than him, but in the last few weeks or even months, he didn’t know how to talk to him anymore. Work was a place for work. It was a way to push through the feelings, the doubts; yet in the process he had forgotten that his good old friends were working with him too. They were dealing with their own grief. Sasha had reminded him of that.

Jean felt the bitter taste of regret pool in his mouth. Sitting across from Connie, he wondered how he could ever say what he knew about Marco. There was no reasonable way he could explain that Marco wasn’t quite dead, at least not in the traditional sense, nor that he had been talking with him regularly. Jean had felt the same about telling Armin, but after hearing his concern at the intervention he could hardly mention anything like this now. It just wasn’t something anyone was going to understand. Jean didn’t understand it much himself either. He’d just have to shut up and remember that he knew more about what happened to Marco than anyone else, and no one was ever going to know as much as he did.

Connie leaned back into his chair and gripped his hands onto the armrests. His fingers clawed playfully at the soft leather, squishing it beneath his fingers in thought. “Give me a good steak sandwich and I’m set. I’ll get you one too. My treat.” He nodded towards the inside of the small cafe and started to stand, making an exaggerated push up with a bend of his knees.

“Nah, that’s not necessary, man.” Jean tried to wave him off. He didn’t need anyone to be buying him lunch. He was eating fine, but lately they’d all started trying to make sure he was fed. He had enough of that from his mother to begin with. Work didn’t need to start doing that too. “I was only joking.” Forcing a smile, he struggled to convince Connie otherwise. Nothing was going to stop him from buying Jean lunch after all.

Pushing his chair in, Connie laughed through his nose and smiled. It faded just as quickly as it had appeared when his tone turned serious and quiet. “I’m half convinced you haven’t been eating and that’s why you look like you’re sick all the time. Something’s gotta be eating at you.” He paused and searched over Jean with a keen eye. Connie could read people. It was part of the reason he made such a good salesperson. He could read someone over before they’d even registered what they were thinking themselves. “It’s Marco, isn’t it?”

The mention of Marco’s name struck a nerve. Apparently it was obvious enough that Connie was nodding at the confirmation of his suspicions before Jean had even opened his mouth. He’d hit the nail on the head, but it wasn’t just Marco that had him worried. Surely it wouldn’t hurt if he said something about the security guards. That would seem normal enough. “Marco’s… always on my mind, but…” He sighed and bit his lips, gathering as much courage and as much cunning as he could before he continued, “I was actually thinking about security.” He glanced up to make a show of it, turning his head towards the main hall of the shopping centre.

“Those guys?” Connie steadied himself with a hand on the chair. He hadn’t been expecting that. “They’ve not exactly been doing their jobs lately.” He squinted and ran a hand over his hair, brushing at the short length with a thoughtful look on his face. The corner of his mouth quirked into somewhere between a smile and a frown. “Though I haven’t seen them much lately. Who knows what they think a job is.”

Jean hummed in agreement. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen them around since he’d spoken to Annie. Bertholdt and Reiner weren’t the only guards in the mall, but it was rare to not see at least one of them around. It was just as rare for them to be far from each other. Reiner still made the effort to chat with Connie whenever he was free. Jean couldn’t imagine how Connie would react to learning Reiner had been there when Marco had… It wasn’t worth imagining.

With a tap of the table, Connie excused himself and wandered off into the cafe. The table itself was little more than planks of wood nailed together with a slap of lacquer, and Jean wondered for a moment if he wasn’t put together like that himself. The table wobbled underneath his elbows as he leaned on it, and despite how unstable it was, it felt right, real. The wobbliest part of it, the uncertainty of everything, only came down to one leg being short. He grabbed a handful of napkins from the dispenser in the middle and bent down to stuff it under one of the legs. It was a temporary fix, but the table would be stable for now.

“Generally you use those for your face.” A tinkle of laughter jolted him up, making him hit the back of his head on the table. A groan of his own followed when he rubbed the sore lump on the back of his head. “Wait -- are you okay?” A hand found his shoulder and gave a supportive squeeze. Chris’ face appeared in the corner of his eye. They looked different with their hair pulled back into a low ponytail.

Continuing to rub his head, Jean sat back into his chair. He must’ve looked amusing based on the way Chris pressed their lips together to hide a laugh. “I will be if you kiss it better.” He raised an eyebrow and chuckled lowly at his own pitiful joke. There was a good understanding between them that nothing would ever happen. Just as Ymir was fond of Chris in every way, Jean was sure Chris wasn’t even capable of batting an eye at anyone else. It seemed to amuse each of them to no end.

“Don’t flirt with me, Jean. It’s embarrassing… for you,” they snarked back and favoured him a pitying glance. He entirely deserved it for that shocker, and when they smiled with bright eyes and white teeth, he knew it was worth it. They hadn’t spoken in a while. It had been so busy with work and lunches and the occasional dinner that Jean hadn’t had much time to go catch up with Chris.

He smiled back in kind. “Oh, now, that hurts.” Mocking a false chip in his pride, Jean clutched his chest dramatically. The gesture immediately earned him another smile and a shake of their head. He appreciated the moments they had like these where they could be candid. It was a stark change from the soft, quiet conversation outside of the bank they’d had last time. Seeing Chris cry wasn’t something he ever wanted to see again.

Chris rolled their eyes and swiftly turned their attention to the cafe, leaning more on one foot to check for Connie inside. Their eyes settled back on Jean’s chair and measured Jean’s posture with a sense of judgement. “I see you’re slacking off.”  They crossed their arms and put out their chin with a playful display of disapproval.

Huffing, Jean shook his head and responded in the most dismissive tone he could manage, “No, no, this is me hard at work.” If he could have put his feet on the table, crossing one leg over the other, he would have. Instead he leaned back into his chair and let a thought settle in his mind. “Speaking of, you seen Reiner and Bertholdt around?”

The look on Chris’ face immediately changed. Their eyebrows drew into a line and their lips followed in kind. “They resigned.” Their voice was blunt at first. A hint of confusion lay within their tone. “No one told you?” They leaned into the cafe again to check where Connie was. Jean followed their glance and looked for himself this time. In the rear of the cafe, Connie stood behind a woman making a rather long and detailed order. He didn’t look pleased to be there, but Jean was more than thankful he couldn’t hear what Chris was saying.

“No” was all he could manage to say in response. He’d built up the idea in his head that he would give them a few choice words. He’d reveal what he knew without ever saying how he had found out about them, just to see the look on their faces. He’d learn more from their reaction than ever asking them what went on. He wanted to accuse them and challenge them and fight for Marco’s memory in some way. Yet he couldn’t deny that he was relieved to hear the news as much as he was frustrated by it. Confronting them would have been of no use and he’d probably have just ended up putting himself in peril.

Chris shrugged and glanced over their shoulder, surveying the hall of the shopping centre and nodding when they caught the gaze of one of the other bank employees on their break. “Probably a good thing. They were the worst security guards.” Chris’s attention turned back to him, their arms crossing over their chest. “Ymir got along with them but they… I don’t know how they got the job.”

Jean nodded, not knowing what else to say other than a casual “Right…” He was still stuck on the idea that they were gone. Every fantasy he had worked up into his head that had distracted him since he last saw Marco was washed away by the news that they were no longer here, no longer within reach of confrontation. When the fog cleared, he added, “Connie’s not going to take it well.”

Frowning, Chris reluctantly agreed. “No. They, uh… they left without saying anything.” They moved their weight from one foot to another, humming with a tone of dissatisfaction. Jean couldn’t blame them. “Do you think we should tell him?” Their blue eyes shimmered in the soft buzz of LEDs lights, waiting and open with no answer in them, wanting Jean to provide one.

People going without saying goodbye always left a space where they once stood. Yet with what he knew, he struggled to feel anything was missing in their absence. Connie deserved better than losing his friend without him saying anything, but Jean couldn’t be the other friend to tell him. “No? Not yet at least. I can’t. I can’t do that,” he muttered barely loud enough to compete with the cafe clatter.

Thankfully understanding, Chris patted him on the shoulder and bid him a soft goodbye. “Take care of yourself, okay? I’ll see you around.” The touch of their shoes against the tiles was just as soft as their voice, disappearing into the reverberating sounds of retail. The cheerful nature they had brought left with them just the same and Jean waited in the storm of his mind, wishing for the calm to return.

Complaining about the long wait, Connie returned to the table with a noticeable attitude change. He broke Jean’s fixation with an aggravated wave of his arms. The conversation fell back into place and this time Jean listened with real interest. The time passed and his tension eased. He wondered how long he had gone keeping so much to himself, hiding himself away, that a simple light-hearted laugh at a friend’s story could bring him back to where he had always needed to be.

Work passed quicker after that. His tension seemed to have eased and perhaps even drifted away with the news Chris had given him. He spent the afternoon fixing watches without scaring unsuspecting customers and without the frustrations of flying watch parts.

Walking home from work along the street, Jean wondered how much of him had changed that he hadn’t yet seen. The faint, familiar orange glow of Trost City streetlights started to flicker on as he passed them, reminding him that the seasons were changing as much as everything else seemed to be. Yet he couldn’t find himself caught up in it all, wondering instead what he would say to Marco when he saw him next.

The pleasant din of his afternoon fell away like a dropped curtain when a Trost Police crest caught a glint of sunlight. Reflecting off the side of the police car, covered in peeling stickers and old scratches in the paint, the crest stood as a beacon, calling him in closer, unable to look away. Where the old feeling of hope had once been, seeing the symbol and thinking of Marco, it had been replaced with the dread of hoping he wasn’t about to run into Annie.

Beneath the gleam he could make out a familiar sheen, a hint of blonde behind the tinted windows. Though dark, the hairstyle, the bangs, the angled face beneath them with its hooked nose all looked familiar to him. As much as he had feared seeing her again, there Annie was, calmly sitting behind glass in the passenger seat. Outside, her partner Hitch was on the phone, meandering around the car as she chatted away.

He couldn’t stop himself from crossing the distance and marching right up to the car window. He moved faster than he ever thought he could, almost sprinting to confront her. His fist hit the side of the car before it dawned on him what he was doing. It was too late to step back. Annie was right there, staring out at him. There was nowhere for her to run to now.

Her blue eyes looked almost grey through the window and mixed hauntingly with his own reflection staring back up at him. The window lowered with a low hum, stopping halfway down so her eyes could peer up at him unhindered. A tense silence followed, eyes locked, lips drawn into lines. Annie's eyebrows rose in expectation, prompting Jean to say the thing he had run over to say.

“How did you know I had them?” Jean demanded loudly, stepping back from the car with his hands forgotten by his sides. It felt weird being that close to her, knowing what he did now. A slight fear that she might know, be able to see that he knew, made his shoulders tense. “That's why you came over to my house. To see what I knew.”

She blinked slowly at his accusation and heaved a deep sigh. Her calm demeanour didn't hide the cold tension of anger lying beneath. She was patient and clever and currently aware that her partner was standing on the other side of the car. "Hello to you too, Jean." A hint of a threat lingered in her tone, but before he could answer, she had leaned on the car door.

Jean had imagined what he might say if he saw her, how he could conceal what he knew, bluff his way through the knowledge sitting in his brain. Anything he would say was bound to reveal that he knew something, when there was no way that he could know. She couldn't suspect of him of knowing too much surely. Now was too good of an opportunity to let the moment pass, yet nothing came out of his mouth.

"Have you got something to say to me?" Annie asked expectantly, taunting him with that sharp tone of hers. The uniform she wore seemed to look sharper on her short form compared to how it had fit Marco. He'd seen her wear it before, but now it seemed odd and ill-fitting -- more in his mind than in reality. He suspected it was more costume to her than uniform -- fitting, considering the shady business she had been involved with.

Jean bit his lip. He’d had plenty of choice things to say to her. The pressure to defend Marco even after his passing swelled up in his chest, but none of it seemed right. He settled back on a series of nonsense sounds before he managed, "What? So you're just going to," a huff rushed out of his nose, "pretend that you weren't checking up on me."

Annie rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, waiting a moment to see if Jean had more to say. "Yes, I was checking up on you. Is that what you wanted to hear, Jean?" The contempt in her voice rose. Her head tilted with a frown forming on her lips. It didn't disappear when she spoke. "I wanted to see how you were... after the news." Her eyes dropped then, avoiding his, suddenly more concerned with the ground below than holding her chin up.  
  
"You said you saw him," Jean spat, voice shaking, his lips quivering more than he expected. He had wanted to sound aggressive, he wanted to feel strong in this moment, but his body betrayed him, shoulders shaking and voice wavering. He sounded like he might cry at any moment, and he wasn't entirely sure that he wouldn't. "It was more than that, wasn't it?" Every bit of accusation he had fell into those words. He wanted her to feel it.

Sighing, Annie played her tongue around her teeth, lips pursing and pouting as she considered him and his words. Her mouth opened and closed, letting out gasps and sighs of words not yet formed. She checked over her shoulder for a moment and nodded to the waiting gaze of Hitch on the other side of the car.

Hitch hovered close but not close enough to hear. Her chin rose in interest, looking between the two of them and off into the distance as she answered the person on the other end of the line. Her disinterest played keenly across her face. Jean had to thank his luck that she didn't seem to want anything to do with his confrontation with Annie.

"You saw him?" Jean stated with uncertainty, sounding more like a question. He knew the truth now. He wanted so desperately to tell her exactly what he thought of her and her blatantly obvious agendas. She'd never been concerned about seeing him. She'd never wanted to catch up with him. She'd wanted Marco's things. She wanted whatever he had on her and the realisation of that made Jean feel sick.

Annie bit her lip. She took a deep breath, chest rising as the air filled her lungs. Jean could hear the way it whistled and how tense her body was as she exhaled it again. "You don't understand, Jean." Her voice was softer then, probably trying to win him over as if she was somehow affected by all this.

Jean scoffed and shifted forward, head tilting down. "You saw him." Part of him wanted to scare her, another part wanted to fight her, but every part of him wanted her to feel what he felt, even if he wasn't entirely sure what that was yet. "You left him there." From what Marco had told him, Annie had simply left him to fend for himself. It was good as leaving him to the wolves. She was as much to blame as far as he was concerned.

"I didn't shoot him..." she began as an admission. Jean faltered for a second, stepping back when he heard the guilt in her voice. She followed his movement, reaching down to the car door to open it. She stepped out to the sound of gravel at her feet and closed the door behind her with a touch of her fingertips. It shut with a gentle click.

Jean moved back and forth before her, pacing a few steps left and a few steps right. "But you watched him die!" It was the truth, and yet that sound in her voice confused him. She should be angry at him. She should be defending her actions. Yet she was looking at him with those blue eyes of hers, still tense, still angry, but not one ounce of it looked at him like she could blame him.

Jean continued, starting to rub at his arms, trying to explain it all out loud and reconcile what he felt with what he saw in front of him. "And you took his ring. The ring I gave him." His voice broke, cracking on the last word. It was more than enough to tell him that he needed to stop, but there was so much more to say.

"It was too late. I..." Annie trailed off. Her eyes shone in the afternoon light, glassier than they had been before. She looked smaller then, less of a police officer, than she had sitting safely in her car.

Jean realised, looking down at her, that she didn't fear him like he feared her; even with that softness to her face, he still felt it: the urge to protect himself should she decide to end him. "What good are you? As a cop or a partner?" he demanded with venom on his tongue. He had been wondering the same question on the way over, from the moment Marco's story had settled in.

She answered quietly, finally looking up at him. "I didn't know..." She stopped herself short. Whether she was going to admit to something or try to explain away her role in everything, Jean found himself not caring. It didn't matter what she said, because Jean was here to tell her things, not hear her excuses.

"But you helped them." Annie's eyes snapped at him then, a hint of fear and concern swirling in the blue. Jean had to hide the smile forming at his lips. He had hit a nerve and she wasn't asking how he knew. "Who was it?" It seemed a reasonable question to ask of the last person to see Marco alive. They both knew it. That part he didn't need to explain.

She shook her head, shaking loose strands of her blonde hair from her bun. They fell across her face and softened the hard lines of her cheekbones, the square angle of her jaw. "I don't know."

Jean rubbed his face as if the motion would remove the way his face hurt as drew together in frustration and confusion. "How can you not know? You don't get to not know." The sheer surge of anger at Annie's ignorance set Jean moving across the sidewalk. He wanted to hit the car, do some real damage to something, so at least it would work its way out of him. She'd been working for this group, as far as he and Marco knew, and yet she had no idea who killed him. That was not okay. That was not the answer Jean had wanted.

"He's long gone now," she stated flatly. It sounded like a fact that neither of them could do anything about when she said it like that. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps there was no justice to be found in finding Marco's killer. Whoever they were, if they were gone, who was Jean to chase them? Annie looked resigned to never thinking of it again -- as if this was commonplace, as if this was normal. She'd already given up.

Jean stopped fighting and stood in one place, heels digging into the sidewalk like it might move out of his way. "This is the kind of people you deal with?" He considered Hitch for a moment, wondering how much she knew of all this. She'd been there on that night too when Marco and Mina had died. There were likely others, too, from the story Marco told him, from the impressions he'd been given. He'd been left so far out of the story that he had to piece everything back together himself, and not one second of it felt as satisfying as he'd expected it would be.

Arms relaxing, Annie frowned and peered over him with the distinct look of dissatisfaction. Jean's own shoulders tensed at the judgement she placed on him. Suddenly she looked like a cop again, and sounded just as serious when she answered in a hushed tone, "It's not that simple." She exhaled loudly, casting a glance over her shoulder at Hitch again. There she was again, trying to make sure her secrets remained unknown.

"I see this pretty clear." Jean raised his eyebrows, casting his own silent accusations her way.  He didn't have any of her authority or experience, but he knew a thing or two about standing his ground, even if he wasn't any good at it. As far as he was concerned, she had dragged Marco into that mess the moment they were set up to raid that warehouse. He wouldn't be surprised if she was the one that had orchestrated them going there. After all, as Marco had said, they weren’t meant to be there in the first place.

"I lost someone too," she pointed out with a tilt of her chin up at him, stepping closer in challenge. Though from afar it would have looked like an act of defiance, up close every part of her body seemed to reveal her defensive stance. Her fingers dug into her arms, her shoulders huddled in towards her neck as if she was cold, and her legs drew together.

Annie was as much at fault for what happened to Mina as she was for Marco. If she had thrown them all into that mess, gotten the new recruits part of a raid they weren't meant to be a part of, surely that fault, that guilt, lay on her for Mina's death too. Jean wondered what Mina had ever truly meant to Annie, whether what she said at Marco's grave had been an act. "But did you really care?" He regretted asking it as soon as he said it, wishing he could take it back. The shock in her face told him what he needed to know. The heat of guilt burned his face and his neck, setting his voice trembling. "You just took Marco's ring without a thought. Would you even have given it to me if I didn't bump into you?"

The question hung in the air for a moment. Her fingers climbed up her chest to her neck, grasping for something no longer there. The comfort she was seeking wasn't there and her hand fell back to its original place by her elbow. "I…" Her eyes closed when she frowned this time and for the first time, Jean could truly see and believe the regret. He hated himself for a moment for thinking she had been faking her pain.

Annie steadied herself, running a thumb over her arm in thought. “Do you ever question where you are in life? Step back and really, truly, see where you're standing and what you're doing?" She paused and took a moment to direct a glance at Jean. "Is it where you thought you'd be? How off track have you gone? And is there ever a chance of getting back to that person you were, the person they saw in you. It's all I ever think about.”

Jean stood stunned with no answer of his own. He tried to come up with something, anything, to contradict her and in that moment he found himself agreeing, sympathising. Walking away after a wordless goodbye, he realised he was angry this time for no reason other than wanting answers that he already seemed to have and blame that he had nowhere to place. He had tried to put it on her, the witness, the last one to see him alive, the one who had taken the last part of Marco that remained.

Yet she'd been the one to approach him, challenge him, and give him that piece that she had saved, regardless of her intentions in taking it in the first place. After all, she had lost someone too, and Jean wondered if he'd let himself believe in his arrogance that his loss had been greater. He immediately felt foolish, seeing himself in the reflection of the car window again. Maybe he had been more lost than he thought.

Annie didn't seem to judge him for any of that. She stood firm, resilient, like every comment he could make would hurt her but she'd still remain standing. She had all of her own guilt to work through and Jean could see that now. Somehow that realisation left him empty where he thought he would feel fulfilled, complete, like the story had come to its end. But stories kept going beyond ever afters, and not all of them were happy.

The walk to Marco's grave as the new moon hovered in the sky felt slow this time. His feet dragged behind him, brushing against the grass rustling along the walk through the cemetery. He took to the soft ground, too tense and jumpy to walk along anything more solid. It felt pleasant this way, easier, like he could pretend that it was a casual night time stroll, but visiting Marco was never casual.

There was a sense of finality to the way he walked. He knew everything had to come to an end, but the strangeness of having all of the answers he wanted but none of the closure he needed felt wrong. The steps felt strange, like the shadows of the night walked along with him because the moon had hidden itself to allow Marco to shine once more.

Unlike last visit, Jean hesitated to touch the headstone, knowing that brushing against it would bring Marco to him and likely take him away that much sooner. He counted three deep breaths before his hand settled on the stone and the shining white specks began to swirl by his side. He would have given anything to hear the sound of crickets or the rush of the wind through the trees, but the only sound he could make out was his own shaky breathing.

Marco's figure formed, specks swirling and drawing together, from the glow of white to a flush of colour. They moulded him as they always had in that same image, from the shiny black of his shoes, to the dark navy of his uniform, to the deep brown of his eyes. There was so much colour that Jean took a moment to let the image sink in, memorising it, smiling through the wetness that clung to his eyes.  
  
"Is everything okay, Jean?" Marco asked first, shoulders back and tense. His voice, Jean noted, held the same wispy quality he'd dismissed for months. It seemed to echo and rasp, always there but not quite whole, like the rest of him. He had forgotten how airy it sounded, how much of the life and light that had once been in it was gone.

Jean exhaled for what seemed like too long. "It's fine." He could tell Marco didn't believe his blatant lie, but it was easier than saying he feared this might be the very last time they would see each other. He couldn't be certain, but whatever Marco was, surely he was meant to disappear once secrets were revealed, once business was finished.

A frown worked its way onto Marco's features. Specks flitted around his arms as if they struggled to keep as still as the rest of him. "You don't look fine... something's not quite right with you today." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he seemed to realise why, eyes opening wider, eyelids blinking harder. Jean suspected he could tell just by looking that Jean had done something with the information he had given last time.

Biting his lip, Jean wondered what he had left to say and found the answer was somewhere between everything and nothing. The more he thought about it, the longer time dragged on. Marco didn't push, instead moving close to cup Jean's face with a gentle hand. It tingled against his skin, each speck seeming to leave traces of kisses as they fluttered and jittered in place.

Jean closed his eyes to let the brief traces of electricity he could feel bring him to a place of calm. When he opened his eyes again, Marco's met his, searching for the truth there. They burned into him, so bright and shiny that Jean forgot they were made of specks, and they pulled the only words from him that felt right in that moment, "You know I love you, right?"

The shine dipped from Marco's eyes to the smile on his lips with a single glance down, the edges of them tugging up with a soft exhale. "Always have..." Marco’s hand moved to hold Jean’s face, caressing over the skin of his jawline. "And I you." His smile grew greater at that, passing the inches between their faces to be reflected back in Jean's lips too.

"Good, good," Jean spoke aloud with a chuckle. The reassurance was something he needed. He felt useless standing there with his hands by his sides while Marco so easily managed to bridge the gap between them. Jean had always struggled with that; in this moment, in the dark, Jean found himself thanking the stars in the sky that Marco knew what to do. "And uh..." He tried to speak again, but trailed off into silence.

Marco hummed, considering Jean's face with a narrowing of his eyes. He appeared worried, even confused, with his smile seeming to melt away into a frown. "Why are you saying goodbye, Jean?" His lips drew into a line when Jean refused to answer him immediately.

He found it hard to look Marco in the eye when he asked questions he didn't want to be asked. Marco knew that well enough. He was always the one to ask Jean the difficult questions. Somehow he managed to find the right things to say and the wrong things to ask. Jean took his turn to ask one of his own. "This is how this works, right?" He suspected that the things he felt the need to say were somehow important. For all he knew, this would be goodbye, for both of them.

Marco's face went blank at that. "What do you mean?" His hand withdrew by a fraction and his body stepped forward, getting as close to Jean as he could. A few specks of his arm broke off and began to swim around his hand. They dusted over Jean's cheeks, landing on eyelashes for a fraction of a second before moving on again.

Closing his eyes, Jean felt the weight of his expectation fall upon him. He swore he could feel something approaching like an impending doom, facing him as he faced Marco. "There's nothing... left... that I can do." With shaky fingers, suddenly uncertain of how to move his body, his own hand reached up for Marco's arm.

"Is that you giving up on me?" A whisper of a question sounded like all the air out of Marco's lungs. Then Jean remembered that Marco wasn't truly breathing -- he didn't need to breathe -- and it made the tone sound all the sadder.

Jean's hand stopped in mid-air. "No, no, never. I..." He moved his hand forward again to stroke Marco's shoulder, fingers tingling as if sparks burst at the touch. "I'm scared." The fear of losing Marco again tugged at his heartstrings. He wanted to feel that solid touch of Marco in his grasp again, wanted to have that same feeling of gratitude mingled with pleasant surprise.

Marco's hand dropped and nestled over Jean's on his shoulder. He cast a glance over himself with a sense of judgement. "Of this... and what it means?" The touch of curiosity and doubt in his voice was just enough to make Jean nervous. It was likely Marco felt as nervous as he did, perhaps wondering what that information would mean when it all came together.

"Yeah..." Jean admitted with a sigh. He'd wondered what Marco's apparition meant for a long time. He wondered why he appeared only at night, at the darkest moment of the month. Perhaps there was more to it, or perhaps it meant nothing at all. Perhaps, Jean noted as he glimpsed the orange streetlights, this was the like the night he passed, played over and over again, until an ending that Jean did not know.

Marco shrugged his shoulder into Jean's hand while his own ran down Jean's neck, tracing down his arm. "What do you think's going to happen?" His fingers glowed with a hint of blue as they wrote letters and numbers on his skin. They made no sense to Jean, but as with everything Marco did, they made a kind of sense all the same.

A long silence passed while Jean avoided answering, not wanting to face the possibilities. Their hands found stronger holds on each other's arms, almost hugging, almost embracing. They shuffled paces over the grass and listened to the soft whisper of night and the nervous inhales that whistled to break the silence. They stared for a while, forgetting the passing of time, letting gazes linger on noses and eyes and lips, until Jean whispered, "I don't know... but I don't know why you're here either..."

A chuckle rippled through Marco's form, sending a bright blue glow through his body, culminating at the tips of his fingers where his body ended and Jean's began. "I always thought it was obvious." Like a song, Marco's voice was sweet and bright, wrapped up in a smile. He cast his eyes down wistfully as if he remembered something fondly.

Jean removed his hands and scoffed. His arms withdrew to fold themselves across his chest. Whatever Marco was getting at, Jean had no idea. If it were obvious enough, surely Jean would have noticed by now. He could chalk it up to unfinished business, he guessed, but the look in Marco's eyes said something else. "Well you're going to have to fill me in because I've got no --"

"You." Marco's eyes seemed to glow when he glanced up again. His smile was warm beside the cold blue that took to his eyes. It was strange. It seemed to be a tint, ever moving, ever changing, and never seeming to stop like the specks when Marco was stressed.

Jean stepped back a little, blinking hard and touching his chest for a second. He answered with a voice higher in pitch and full of confusion, "Me?"

Marco took a step back, turning his hands before him. Wisps of specks rose from them, glowing white while his hands glowed blue. They rose like smoke in thick air, searching upwards, curling and unfurling in strange patterns like a confused school of fish. "I'm here 'cause... you... " He darted his eyes up toward Jean, pushing a smile onto his lips, and once more turning his attention to his hands.

Rolling his eyes, Jean sighed through his nose. That couldn't be it. Nothing was ever that simple. It was certainly nice to believe it. Even if he didn't, a tingling warmth was in his face, a flush down his neck. His skin seemed to burn with the blush, hearing Marco's sincerity. "That's sweet, Marco, but it's gotta be more than --"  
  
"Do you remember when we were younger?" Marco asked, interrupting Jean with the casual tone of reminiscing. There was a gentle command he held in his voice that lent an ease to questioning Jean. He likely knew Jean wanted to do anything in his power to answer.  
  
Jean laughed at his own weakness and then at the stream of memories that came to the forefront of his mind. Marco knew too much. "You going to call me out on something now? Some promise I made?" He could be referring to anything they had done together over the years. There was too much to choose from.

Marco followed in kind and laughed himself, voice splitting into an echoing harmony. It sent shivers down Jean’s spine. His voice reformed when he answered, "You and me... at that cafe... " His head tilted and his lips parted with a patient smile.

"Now you're getting sentimental on me.” Jean remembered that night well. The candle had flickered on the table between them, offering a little warmth from the small flame. The street noises had melded with the sounds of the people around them and they had waited, talking over Marco’s moving away for the academy until Armin, Eren, and Mikasa arrived. “Are you okay?"

Shrugging off the question, Marco nodded ever so slightly. He looked nervous then. Specks rose from his shoulders, flickers of shining white in the darkness. "You made me swear to keep a promise." His tongue hissed on the last word. It seemed to resonate through the air.

Jean snorted. He remembered how stubborn he had been then. He’d dismissed Marco’s idea of making friends with new work colleagues. It made no sense to him why he should get close to anyone, not when he had Marco. "To not let me be lonely? You took that seriously?" For a second his voice broke, disbelief at how he’d been and how Marco had taken him seriously coming through.

"For you? Of course." There was Marco’s genuine admission again and Jean just about lost his ability to stand. The very glint in Marco’s eyes, still blue and shining around the brown, weakened his knees.

Jean waited for more, but no more came. The same old nervous feeling came over him. It had been years since he had felt it, and then he realised why his heart raced, his mouth grew dry, and his face blushed. "That's uh... well... I have one for you then." His teasing felt like more of a whiny comeback. He could never win against Marco, not even now.

"Oh yeah?" Marco smirked and put all of his weight onto one foot. He challenged Jean’s statement with that tiniest shift of his body, still an officer in his uniform with a strong jaw and the unfortunate advantage of muscle tone.

Jean gulped and licked his lips when he looked away. "When we were kids... on that hill..." Marco had kept a dandelion on that day. He was determined to keep it like the sentimental sweetheart that he was. Years later, it was by his feet, barely a foot underneath the grave that had now grown across it.

"With the dandelions?" Marco laughed and nodded. His expression changed to one of fondness. Jean could just about swear that his eyes sparkled in the light around him. The more that he stared, the more it seemed to grow.

"Yeah…” The surprise hit Jean in an odd way. They’d visited the top of that hill so many times. During the summer, it became their picnic spot where they fought the local ants for a peaceful meal, and in the spring, they ran their fingers through the flowers while searching for the hint of small creatures stalking in the tall grass. Yet Marco knew which moment he meant despite all those memories. “And I said that if I told you my wish, it wouldn’t come true."

It was Marco’s turn to be surprised. His eyebrows drew into a line and with his very serious expression he reserved for moments that took him off guard, he asked, "You remember that?"

Jean uncrossed his arms to throw them up as he squeaked, "You kind of kissed me." He broke down into chuckles, remembering how awkward that first kiss was. He wouldn’t change it for the world.

"You kissed back." Marco pouted with a sense of indignation. He raised his eyebrows pointedly just to be sure. He couldn’t help himself for teasing back and making sure in his own little way that Jean got the details right.

Crossing his arms again, Jean mimicked Marco’s pout. "So I did, after you snuck that on me." He stepped back and moved about restlessly. There was only so long he could stand still without getting frustrated.

Marco stood freakishly still. He had a sense of discipline even before his days in the academy. Yet despite all that, he couldn’t pretend to be serious for long, his face cracking as he rattled off, "I was young and you were cute."

Jean scoffed and pursed his lips, exaggerating his consideration in the assessment of him. "Uh-huh... I see... I'm not cute now?" He raised his eyebrows.

"No. It’s really sad." Marco feigned his disapproval. For a moment he managed to maintain some semblance of a straight face. His lip quivered too much for either of them to take it seriously. Marco held his act only tentatively with a minute shift of his shoulders.

Jean puffed out his chest and tilted up his chin, contributing his own performance to their act. "Should I be worried?" He tried to make his lip quiver on its own, but only succeeded in making himself look just a tad more pathetic.

"No.” The answer came with a mock-dismissive tone. Marco hummed loudly and looked Jean up and down with judging eyes. His attention lingered with a hum of approval. He quickly dismissed it with a sigh. "But I don't know what's going to happen anymore."

Jean offered the only thing he had in his thoughts. "You can at least enjoy my company." The joke felt empty. He’d come tonight, the first new moon after learning what happened, thinking it might be the last. He’d almost forgotten that in amongst the laughter and memories.

"There's that, admittedly, but don't let it go to your head." Marco tried his own hand at cracking a joke and felt it fall flat. There was no laughter there and his attention turned back to his hands. They continued to glow blue around the edges. Specks parted from his body, rising from his shoulders, his arms, and the brightest from his palms. He played with the ring on his left hand, which shone in the soft glow. "Do you ever wonder _how_ I'm here?"

The sight had Jean questioning if Marco was already falling apart. Bits of him seemed to be rising to the night sky. "Are you saying you believe in magic?" Jean suspected there were greater things he might never know. Magic, if such a thing existed, might be one of them. He would leave that thinking to someone else.

"I don't know what to believe in anymore." Marco’s face dropped, frowning, apparently just as frustrated as Jean felt. He sounded so lost, wanting to believe, wanting to know, wanting to be certain. He cleared his throat and exhaled, adjusting his posture. "But I'm here... with you."

"And we match... " Jean laughed and glanced at the ring on Marco’s finger and then on his own. He reached out with his left hand, fingers curled, uncertain he was truly seeing the details he thought he was. Marco’s hand relaxed at the touch and let Jean’s fingers entwine with his own. "It's the same one,” Jean added upon inspection.

Marco leaned to peer at the ring on Jean’s finger. "Fancy that." He took his turn to move their hands. "I'm glad you have it, Jean." White specks swirled around their joined hands. Both of them realised with a smile that they could touch with only the buzz of electricity between them.

"What? That I stole your ring?" Jean said with a huff, sarcasm dripping off his tongue. If Marco only knew how he’d gotten the ring in the first place. He suspected that it would have been put into evidence and released to the family soon enough. He let it go and focused on Marco in front of him.

Marco edged closer, feet brushing through the grass. It gave the faintest bow as if a breeze had made its way through instead. "You gave it to me in the first place, remember? A going away 'You better get your ass back here' present. You were so charming about it."

Huffing even louder this time, Jean challenged Marco with a step forward himself. They were almost nose to nose. His eyes kept falling to the lips barely inches before his. "I happen to like your ass, thank you." He raised an eyebrow for show.

Marco ignored his statement and kept talking. "I never got to give you one. I want you to keep it." His attention had already turned back to the ring. Both hands enclosed around Jean’s like a cocoon of light and static electricity.

"Well if you _say_ so, but I'd say I'm missing the rest of the package,” Jean teased and tried to tug at one of Marco’s hands. It slid free, unable to make contact. He had to hide the disappointed frown he wanted to make. He wanted to make contact again, but the best they could hope for was light brushes over skin.

Marco cleared his throat, capturing Jean’s hands in his, hovering around his fingers like he’d just caught a moth. "I'm right here." His hands glowed then and he clasped them around Jean’s hand. For a second Jean felt warmth, just a hint of it, working its way into his palm.

"You know how this goes, Marco. We dance, we talk, maybe you give me warm fuzzies and then you're gone again. One day you might just..." he trailed off when he realised just how bitter he sounded. The expectation that this was the last time they would see each other made him angry and sad and everything above and between. The whole process, the soft touches, and how far they had come to be able to be so close and touch seemed all for nothing.

Marco’s expression broke, features flickering like all the specks had moved at once, reforming into something else. "I don't want to leave, Jean,” he muttered with a hint of tears in his voice. His eyes seemed to still be glowing, but the brightness in them had faded, as had the blue on his hands.

"I don't want you to leave either." It sounded like a whine from his lips. Jean was beyond caring when so much time had passed, when he was standing here seeing the man no one else but him could see, thinking he might never see him again.

"Do you think this is it, then?" Marco asked, equally soft, his lips parting and closing like he kept forgetting what he wanted to say. Whatever he thought, it wasn’t clear on his face.

Jean gulped and wondered when was the last time he had drunk water. His mouth was already dry at the thought of Marco leaving, let alone wanting answers from him. "I don't want to believe it, but it might be." Out in the air, it only felt heavier, clinging to his breath and weighing on his lungs. "You're flickering..." His breath stopped for a second when he noticed the change in Marco’s form.

The specks of his body rose up, parting in ripples of light blue. White ones glowed around his shoulders, each one seeming to hover in the air. Eyes looking down over his body, Marco’s expression turned to one of concern. "I feel weird." His voice rasped, a strange harmonic playing in it, making him sound less human than moments before.

"You're probably going soon..." Jean turned to see the sunrise approaching. He leaned on the headstone, feeling the weight of realisation pushing him down. This might be it. This probably was it. Everything had led to this moment and the best he could do while looking Marco in the eyes was lean on his headstone.

Marco nervously rubbed over his hands. Specks seemed to fall from his hand only to join the ones rising up into the air. "’Going’ as in... you really think...?” Panic fell into his voice, rattling around his throat loud enough for Jean to hear. “I'm not ready to go." He peered up with a worry Jean wished he could take away.

The first light peeked over the horizon with slivers of blue and gold and red. It wouldn’t be long before Marco was due to fade again. Jean wasn’t ready to let go or accept that everything was done. Maybe there was something he could do to ease his own worries and Marco’s, if he believed he could do it.

"Come here," he said as he reached out for Marco’s chin and found his fingers managed to touch him. His shocked breath came out in a grateful exhale. His other hand on the gravestone pushed him forward. His eyes closed when their lips met. Desperate and almost shaking, Jean worked his lips against the light touch he could just feel. His hand cupped Marco’s face as his lips worked against the soft, warm comfort before him.

Marco’s lips parted his with a spark and a tingle as the kiss deepened. The flick of his tongue sent a thrill through Jean. It felt like a buzz in his system, pins and needles that reminded him he was very much alive. The kiss was the best Jean could hope for as the sun rose and the warmth of a new day spread out across the grass.

The specks glowed ever brighter, so bright his eyes peeked open to see hundreds of them rising up around them. The end was coming and in his last ditch effort Jean threw himself back into the kiss, eyes forced shut, gasping between each parting of their lips. He felt like he could be breathing in the ether as the petals of light flew in the air.

Next he knew, the wind of the morning gushed by them and around their feet. Jean’s hand fell away as he awaited the inevitable. A light flashed around them, so bright that even with his eyes closed Jean was sure it was blue. The grass around his feet swished with the rush of air and the tingling shiver that ran down Jean’s body. His ring felt warm on his finger.

When the birds started singing in the sunrise, he finally gasped for breath and pulled back, eyes still closed, not wanting to see the empty space before him and see Marco gone forever. He would never know for sure, at least not until a month from now, yet everything about this moment felt so final.

His hand on the headstone slipped away to his side where it curled up into a fist. His shoulders hunched and his eyes tightened around the tears threatening to fall. He had been here once before, in the early morning when the news had hit him. He’d barely been awake then. He didn’t know which was worse: facing his fear after staying up all night or that call.

Birds and insects started singing as Jean stood there, stubborn and hoping in that moment of his own silence that he could open his eyes again. The tension in the air seemed to hold there. A buzz of anticipation clung to his skin. He wished for his heart to stop beating and for the courage of that kiss to return.

"Jean,” he heard Marco call. It was soft, patient, just as he had always been. It could only be wishful thinking now that the sun had risen. He waited a few more seconds, trying to push the sound of that voice out of his head, but it called to him again. "Jean… Jean, look at me already."

Hands trembling, Jean peeked with one eye and caught a blurry figure before him. He tried with the other eye, the morning light blinding him. Blinking both of them, he opened them to find a warm smile before him. Marco was still there, still in his uniform, and in the daylight, longer than any time before. He hadn’t disappeared at all.

Catching the light, hundreds of specks hovered, looking like dandelion seeds in the wind. They floated off as the breeze came between them, ruffling Marco’s hair along with it. He stared with those same bright eyes, shiny and smiling as his lips kept twitching. Assessing himself, he shrugged and laughed with his own disbelief.

"What?" Jean asked and stepped forward, reaching out despite his fear of touching the colourful mirage that could surely be the only explanation for what he could see. "Why are you still _here_?" His eyes searched over every part of Marco, from his shoes to his hands to the tip of his nose.

When their fingertips touched, the same buzz ran through them, and for a second, Jean couldn't see through Marco’s hand. He appeared whole and felt almost real, which that was far better than what he had been dreading. Jean kept blinking as if the answer might come to him the more he tried.

“I don’t know.” Marco shrugged and turned his attention to a pigeon strutting towards them. Its head bobbed, an eye casting up curiously at the two of them. It paused in its place, watching as Marco approached and exhaled laughter through his smile. He looked more alive than Jean had seem him in years, stalking a pigeon that was very much aware that Marco was there.

The pigeon darted across the ground, finding this new form Marco took just as threatening as any other person who might chase it. Jean didn’t know what its acknowledgement of him meant or whether anyone else would be able to see Marco. The sun shone over him, but not through him, not quite. Whatever it meant or whatever it was, there were too many questions swirling in the uncertainty and confusion in his mind to tackle now.

Overwhelmed by the swell of emotion that overtook him, Jean chuckled loudly, wondering what he had done to deserve this -- to deserve the man he loved. He glanced at the ring on his left hand and filled his lungs with a deep breath. He had no idea what any of it all meant, what this new development would bring, but the sun was shining and Marco was smiling and that’s all Jean wanted in that very moment. He couldn’t ask for anything else.

Marco looked back over his shoulder then, smiling in a way that seemed to make the world stop. "I guess I'll always be here... one way or another,” Marco finally answered. His hand reached out for the one Jean had been staring at, grabbing it and pulling him forward. Moments later, Marco raised the hand to his lips to leave a kiss on its ring, warmth radiating from metal to skin.

As they walked through the shadows of the trees and felt the warmth of sunlight together for the first time in years, Jean couldn’t stop watching Marco. Neither of them could stop smiling, still so hesitant to believe in what they could see and what they could feel passing through the joining of their hands. Jean’s heart raced when he caught one detail he had almost forgotten -- a golden ring on Marco’s hand -- and knew for the foreseeable future that everything would be okay. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally the story is done! I'm so happy to have gotten this far and finished the story I've had in my mind for years. Thank you so much for reading all the way through. Thank you to those who have been here from the beginning and those who joined me along the way. Thank you to those who patiently waited for me to finish it before starting.
> 
> I couldn't have done all of this without Laurel's help and the ongoing support from a lot of my readers and friends. <3 Thank you.
> 
> I would love to hear what you think of this chapter <3 All comments and kudos are very much appreciated!
> 
> \---
> 
> If you liked this and want to share it, you can find the Tumblr post featuring art of this chapter [here](https://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/post/152452206772/see-you-when-you-get-here-has-finally-come-to-an).
> 
> I would love to hear your feedback here or you can also find me on [Tumblr](https://foxberryblue.tumblr.com/) and [Twitter](http://twitter.com/foxberryblue) or on my writing only blog [Foxberry Writes](http://foxberrywrites.tumblr.com/).


	10. The Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ If he could choose how to wake up in the morning, this would be the way Jean preferred. The mornings were so much brighter, better, when Marco was there to wake him up, even more so when his boyfriend glowed in all senses of the word. Jean had to admit that having Marco in his bed never made it easier to get out of it. ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt like returning to this universe to give a hint of the future and as a little thank you to all of the people who have loved this story. Please enjoy and note that this is a nsfw-heavy chapter with a hint of ghosty weirdness <3

The warmth of the summer air twirled the soft organza of Jean’s curtains, bringing with it the light of the morning, bright and crisp and pleasant. It caressed his sleeping face like a soft hand, brushing away the sleep clinging to the edges of his eyelashes and letting them open to bleary vision. The songs of the birds outside seemed chipper, and his heart sung just as loud at the sight he found before him.

Tinged with a hint of blue, Marco straddled Jean’s thighs, smiling down with a glint in his eyes. He appeared mostly solid this morning, with just a hint of specks hovering around his hand and around his wrists. The ring on his left hand shone under a beam of sunlight peeking through the curtain.

“Good morning,” his voice rang out from his broad smile as he leaned forward over Jean. His being had only become more and more real, more solid, over the past few weeks. Moments between them like this, when the sun rose, were when they felt the closest, when nothing seemed to have changed at all.

If he could choose how to wake up in the morning, this would be the way Jean preferred. The mornings were so much brighter, better, when Marco was there to wake him up, even more so when his boyfriend glowed in all senses of the word. Jean had to admit that having Marco in his bed never made it easier to get out of it.

Jean smiled back, blinking slowly like a cat, content in his trapped position with his shirt risen halfway up his chest. “‘Morning to you too.” His eyes wandered down over Marco’s body and he blessed whatever luck he had that Marco had worked out how to remove his uniform, that the skin beneath his clothes still looked the same as ever.

Before a word of appreciation made its way out of his mouth, Marco’s lips pressed against it. Soft and tingly like always, the strange warmth in the kiss sent shivers down Jean’s spine. He could never tell if he had butterflies in his stomach or if it was simply Marco’s touch.

The light touch of fingertips crawled under the hem of Jean’s shirt, running up his ribs, feeling the way his chest rose and fell. Marco tilted his head while he watched his hand wander over Jean’s body. Being able to explore each other again was one of life’s simple pleasures. “Think we could…” he began with a look creeping into his eyes.

Jean let his gaze linger over Marco’s bare chest and reached out to test for the hundredth time in the last few weeks whether it was really there. He could feel the soft curls of Marco’s chest hair, the strange tingling heat of his skin, the way his chest moved up and down like he was breathing. Jean’s own breath felt like it left him for a second. “You want to...”

Marco nodded and leaned forward, hands falling to either side of Jean’s head. His lips brushed against Jean’s, testing, searching, and finally deepening the kiss until the sound of their needy breaths filled the room. He pulled away with a laugh. “Yeah.” His hands ran down Jean’s chest to his underwear, leaving a tingling trail in the wake of his fingertips.

The sound of Marco’s voice sent chills through Jean, neither cold nor unwelcomed, but like the touch of gentle fingers running across his skin. Marco didn’t need to touch him to make him feel that way. He’d never had to.

Jean swallowed hard and grabbed at Marco’s shoulders to pull him closer. He revelled in the ability to touch his skin, even when he still glowed, still tingled, but it was too real to ignore how good it felt. If he could spend every waking moment exploring Marco’s body with his hands and with his lips, he would, without question.

Pressing his forehead against Marco’s, he tested a thrust up to roll his morning erection against his husband’s thigh. Jean had taken a while to get used to using that term, getting used to calling him by a different title even if it only meant something to them, but now he didn’t know what he would do without the thrill it sent through him. They connected with a soft buzz, like static electricity running between them.

Marco met him halfway, pushing himself down until their bodies connected, a spark flowing through both of them, marked by a shared sigh. “I missed this,” he added between slow jerks forward, rubbing himself against Jean. “I still don’t… understand… but I… hhnnn… don’t think… I care.”

Staring into the warm, mellow brown of Marco’s eyes, he lost all worries about whether this was right or weird or normal and focussed on what he could feel and see: Marco half-naked on top of him, reciprocating the rolls of his hips.

To each of their fascinations, they’d discovered that there was more to Marco beneath the uniform, so much more, and he was still just as sensitive as he had always been, if not more so. Hands over Marco’s thighs drove him crazy, bringing him to a point where the specks that hovered around him would shake with him in anticipation of a more concrete touch. The more Jean did, the more Marco would react, and oh how he loved those reactions.

Between rolls in the sheets and the tangling of limbs, Jean had discovered Marco was still very much the man he used to be, right down to the hair on his chest and the muscular strength of his thighs. He hadn’t changed at all, his body somehow preserved like the recall of a fond memory. Peeling away the layers revealed him to be so much more made of flesh than Jean had thought possible.

He could feel the same wonder when his fingers dove into Marco’s hair and when their lips met, deepening the kiss with a sense of urgency. His scent hadn’t changed, the sighs he made at Jean’s impatience hadn’t changed, and when Marco pulled back with a smirk and revealed himself as fully naked in the blink of an eye, Jean knew his cheek hadn’t dissipated much, either.

“Is this the part where I applaud?” Jean asked, struggling to hold back his smile. He threw aside the sheets crumpled at his side and dipped his hand down to tug at his underwear. “‘Cause that was a cheap trick and you know it.”

Marco’s hand stopped Jean’s immediately, grip firm and almost warm. “Were you planning on having one hand clapping?” The grin on Marco’s face told of the plans he was scheming. They always had. Nothing could hide the glint of mischief in the brown of his eyes. “I can’t let you do all the work for me.”

Jean relaxed his hand in Marco’s grip and tilted his head back. “Yeah? Well, get to it then. Don’t let me stop you. I know you just like me for my body.” He grinned back, eyelids lowering as he challenged Marco with a stare. Beneath it all he could feel the anticipation building, vibrating like one of Marco’s specks.

“I don’t know…” Marco hummed and unceremoniously tugged down Jean’s boxers. He stared Jean straight in the eye, emotion falling from his face, his hand palming over Jean’s erection like he was simply kneading bread. “Are you sure your body is up to muster?”

Jean huffed through his nose and gritted his teeth. His shoulders seemed to melt into the bed, all tension disappearing at Marco’s touch. “Guess you’ll have to test it.” Jean bit his lips and focussed his efforts on bucking up against Marco’s hand in slow, teasing movements.

Shuffling forward, Marco hummed and leaned forward to kiss the edge of Jean’s lips before he whispered, “Oh, of course. I have to be sure.” His fingers grasped around Jean’s dick and gave a few long strokes. Head tilting to the side, he started moving his hand faster, twisting and squeezing just enough to force gasps and grunts from Jean’s mouth. For all their time lost, Marco hadn’t lost his touch.

The tingling Jean felt was something new he couldn’t quite describe. It was warmth and sparks, feather-light and yet a deep throb in his veins, and each time it sent new jolts through his system. His hips bucked up into Marco’s hand, seeking more of that feeling, more of the touch that made him moan and whine and gasp.

Reduced to little more than sounds, Jean struggled to keep his eyes open to watch Marco’s face, wanting to give in to the moment but not wanting to miss a second of his expressions. “Hhhmmm... fuck." He gulped at the way Marco looked over him, eyeing him up, planning his next move. Jean knew what that look meant.

Marco removed his hand to the sound of Jean's disappointed sigh and positioned himself further forward. "I've been waiting all morning." He rubbed his ass against Jean's erection and let out his own sigh. His own dick hung heavy before Jean's eyes, taunting and waiting for him to reach out and touch it.

"I can see that," Jean hummed and laughed, putting out a hand to wrap his fingers around Marco's cock. Running his thumb over the tip, he moved his hand up and down, feeling a spark of something against his skin. It was strange but not entirely unwelcome. Whatever it was, Marco seemed to feel the same, and he seemed to enjoy it.

It wasn’t long before Marco was easing himself back, putting his hand behind him, and aligning Jean’s cock with his ass. His eyes burned with a mixture of determination and want. It was a look that Jean couldn’t pry from a pang of nostalgia, of familiarity, of safety and everything that came along with it. His chest could barely capture breath at that gaze, nor when Marco began to sink himself down.

“Hoh… shiiiit…” Jean bit his lip as he felt his body shake beneath him. Sensations of warmth and tingling flooded through him, a wave that curled his toes and threw back his head as it overtook him. He’d known this feeling before, been through the shock and surprise of it, but the strangeness of it still managed to overwhelm him every time.

Marco laughed breathlessly, leaning forward, his fingertips sliding over Jean’s chest. Somehow he could light something in each nerve he passed, hot, burning, stinging like the sinews of his body had caught fire. Jean had always known Marco was hot, but this was something else and he knew it.

Sitting upright again, Marco rolled his hips, a smirk teasing at the corner of his lips. “How are you doing there, Jean?” His face faltered for a moment when something hit him just right, sending a shiver through his body, glowing specks glittering across his skin from his hips to his shoulders. They hovered, but did not separate in the same way, not with Marco’s concentration.

Jean’s eyes widened more, taking in the sight before him, breathless at how beautifully Marco was glowing. He barely had a moment to adjust to the warmth emanating from his husband’s body before the flecks disappeared, fading away to reveal the exact way his own dick sat inside Marco. A clearing parted in Marco’s body, flecks glowing white and blue, like Jean was seeing through a veil instead of the flesh and blood Marco seemed to be.

“That is… that is… so weird…” Jean’s voice stutters out of him, tumbling forth from his lips as his throat closed up at the sight and his brain struggled to understand what he was seeing. He could see through, see himself, and yet he could still feel that Marco was there, still riding him. The shock of the visual sent a jolt through his body, sharp and strong, causing him to twitch from his cock to his shoulders. His throat grew dry, swallowing more difficult, and he watched in awe as the specks fell back into that familiar stomach with a defined happy trail.

Marco grinned down and gripped onto Jean’s shoulders, fingers soft, feeling so light against the skin that Jean could barely believe Marco had a good grasp on him at all. The judgement in his eyes was unmistakeable, teetering on the edge of amused, and his voice fell in line with a sing-song tone. “But you’re the perv that’s into it.” The corner of his lips twitched right before he rolled his hips for emphasis.

Jean grit his teeth, grunting through them, air hissing past his lips. He was lucky he was able to run his hands over Marco at all, that he was capable of feeling and touching and pleasuring Marco in the way he used to, in in the way he’d thought he’d almost lost. He choked back, emotional but defiant, “Shut up.” He didn’t mean it. Marco knew as much. Jean had always loved Marco talking in the middle of sex. It heightened every sensation, bringing them closer to both each other and the inevitable orgasm.

“You always were impatient,” Marco teased further, voice dropping to a low growl. His thighs tensed as his fingers let go of Jean’s shoulders. Hands trailing back over Jean’s skin, Marco sighed loudly, pleased with himself and testing Jean’s resolve. The sheer gall to keep teasing was sure to be Jean’s undoing. He could see it coming, but he had no desire to interfere.

Jean thrust upwards, letting his hands drop away to the bed. His fingers tangled in the sheets, grasping for something to hold onto, needing to push himself up. His thighs tensed and his hips rolled, again and again, and he stared pointedly back at his husband. “Marco,” he added sternly, though he didn’t deny it, a hint of his longing at the very corner of his lips. He couldn’t manage a word that wasn’t filled with adoration with those warm eyes meeting his.

A light burned in Marco’s eyes. He’d seen an opportunity and was not about to hold back. “I distinctly remember you trying to convince me that my ass was ready after five minutes.” Pushing himself upright, Marco towered over Jean, only adding to his playful tone with the display of his firm chest.

Jean spluttered, coughing out his embarrassment. He growled and bit his lip, teeth barely able to keep still as self-deprecating laughter bubbled behind his lips. “I was young.” There was little to defend himself with, not when Marco could see how he was winning and knew with certainty that he would be Jean’s downfall in more way than one.

“You were stupid,” Marco asserted with a nod. The smile on his face seemed to shine all the brighter. If Jean believed what he was seeing, he might have thought that the rest of Marco seemed to be brighter too. He had a way of drawing all of Jean's attention with the smallest movement or the most innocent look, but there was nothing innocent about Marco now.

Jean scoffed and thrust up to the sound of a soft moan. Marco always sounded the best when he was caught off guard. All Jean needed was the element of surprise and determination and Marco melted. His eyes narrowed and he retorted with a low growl, “My dick is in your…. glowy ass.” His gaze falls to Marco's navel, to the place he had seen through only moments before. He thanked the universe for whatever had seen fit to bless him with the sight of Marco's thick thighs sitting over him.

“Did you want it to glow?” Marco raised an eyebrow and glanced between Jean’s face and his cock hovering over Jean’s stomach. He wiggled in position, tightening himself over Jean’s cock and forcing a gasp from both of them. His movements were anything but fair, not that Jean minded at all.

Jean sighed and pulled a face. “Don’t make this weirder.” He imagined that Marco would be perfectly capable of making himself glow. He managed to change shape, to feel real, to feel like a soft kiss on a cheek or the caress of a hand. There didn't seem to be a limit to what he could do. Jean wasn't about to test that.

Stretching his arms above his head and making a show of it, Marco rolled his hips slowly and persistently. He made every attempt to tighten around Jean, to make a show of his arms, his shoulders, the array of muscles tensing down his chest. “Then what should I make it?” He traced his hands down his chest, over his pecs, down his abs, and grasped Jean's hands tight before moving them to his ass.

“Good. Like old times." Jean squeezed, trying not to choke on how dry his throat was and how much heavier his breathing had become. He bit into his lip and huffed. Heat had run up his shoulders, burning up his neck and across his cheeks. He knew for certain he looked a special shade of pink. It would only spur Marco on more.

Marco wiggled again, pressing himself back against Jean's hands and rolling himself forward. He bucked in just the right way and at just the the right time that would have made Jean moan louder if he hadn't been asked, “So ride you until you cry?”

“That happened once!” Jean grunted and winced at the sound of his voice squeaking. It had been years and still Marco had that strange power over him, even more so when he was perched over him, glistening in his own sweat. Mornings couldn't be any better without him.

Showing off with his hips once more, Marco licked his lips and hummed. His tone hit just the right note to send a shiver through Jean, and he followed it with a low whisper, “And it was beautiful.” His chuckle was warmth and honey, hints of spice where the depth of the sound seemed to rasp, where the timbre soothed and prodded at Jean's resolve. Marco knew how much it could undo him.

“Shut up and fuck me.” Jean’s fingers darted for Marco’s neck, ran over his skin, and buried themselves in Marco’s hair. Grabbing hold, Jean pulled him forward into a kiss, wet and hard, searching and yearning for something more. His hips rocked up as his eyes closed and if he didn't know the truth he could have sworn this was like any other morning Marco had stayed the night. The only difference lay in the silence of the bed, seemingly incapable of the usual squeaks they'd always made before breakfast was even a thought in their minds.

Jean barely had time to register the glint in Marco's eye before he began to rock his hips faster, lifting himself up from Jean's hips and sinking back down again. A deep groan vibrated through Jean's chest, fingers digging into Marco's skin, grabbing a firmer hold. He wasn't about to let go.

Throwing his head back, Jean let go of his reservations, thrusting up and pulling Marco down, still coming to terms with the fact that this was real. It wasn't the first time he had pondered it and it certainly wouldn't be the last, but the sheer intimacy and the throwback to the times before only set alight every nerve ending in his body. He would give anything to relive this moment over and over and over again.

He could feel the heat coiling in his groin. Where the usual slick sound of lube and skin would be, there was huffing and sighing and moaning. A strange occurrence at first that became something so much more raw, both of them exposed to each other in all sensations. Jean could even feel a warmth as he thrust into Marco, a tingling spark of a sensation that threatened to tip him over the edge the more his cock met with it.

Marco's cock bobbed in time with his movements, teasing Jean with the bead of precum starting to drip from the tip. He couldn't let himself look for too long and miss the array of expressions on Marco's face, expressions he had not seen for so long. He struggled to keep his eyes open just to see them.

Rolling their hips, pressing and grabbing and moaning, they filled the room with grunts and sighs and moans. Marco shuddered whenever he sank back down and Jean groaned as he thrust up into that tight heat. Despite Marco's condition, nothing felt out of place and the pressure in Jean was building, coiling, ready to burst if only Marco looked at him the right way.

Their eyes locked when Marco fell forward, arms becoming weak to the pleasure of Jean's thrusts. He could barely hold himself off Jean's chest and peppered kisses across Jean's neck. "Come, Jean. Please come. Please," he begged with a whimper, the sound caressing over the shell of Jean's ear.

"Y-yeah?" Jean snickered through a smile, his breathy tone barely able to form words. He struggled to tease Marco back as he felt his peak coming. "In you? You w-want that, hmm? Want me to come in you?" Face hot and flushed, Jean grabbed tighter onto Marco as Marco's body clenched around him. For all the power Marco might have over him, Jean could still make his strong husband weak if he tried.

Marco's breaths came out as short bursts as he seemed to struggle for breath. He was so close, so delectably close. "Pl-please." Slumped over while Jean thrust up hard and fast into his ass, Marco had never seemed more human than this moment, when he lost all sense of himself, where all of his focus was on the two of them and the pleasure they could reach together.

With a final few rolls of his hips and a rough grip on Marco's hips, Jean came with a harsh groan like it was ripped from his throat. He kept thrusting, feeling his own come slick around him in the strange circumstance he found himself in. He never quite understood what happened every time they tried something new, but it felt good and it felt familiar and that's all Jean cared about.

Marco came shortly after with a silent gasp, closing his eyes, throwing himself back, and clasping tightly onto any part of Jean his fingers could find. His come splashed across Jean's stomach, white and thick with just a hint of shimmer. Jean could never tell if it was really there, but it still felt the same as the real thing. He took it as a sign that everything was closer to the way things used to be.

Slumping down to Jean’s chest, Marco sighed happily, hands sliding down to the bed. “That was… something.” His fingers reached out to play with Jean’s hair. “Seems I haven’t lost my touch, huh?” He pressed his lips to Jean’s ear before trailing kisses down Jean’s neck, smirking as he went. Each one held its own spark like stars forming a galaxy, swirling up specks of space dust and leaving a glow in their wake.

Jean turned his head and ran his fingers up Marco’s side. The clammy warmth was the same one that he knew, but it held the promise of something new. Every time he touched Marco it was a blessing, a stroke of luck that Jean still wasn’t sure he deserved, but he took it, just as he took Marco’s hand in that moment and he thanked whatever had let him be so lucky.

Marco’s eyebrows rose at the soft, gentle touch. He could see the look Jean knew must have been in his own eyes when their gaze met. His smile left him, wilting into something more concerned, more curious. “Everything okay?” He lay there, somehow weightless and yet somehow heavy, watching with a calm and contented expression on his face.

“Yeah, everything’s okay.” Jean examined Marco’s hand, turning it, inspecting it with quiet awe. He peered back up to that loving stare and smiled. “‘Cause you’re here.” Marco seemed to be happy with that, as much as Jean was. He nodded and smiled, nudging Jean’s shoulder with his cheek. If only they could have stayed in bed like this forever.  
“I should probably get up.” Jean struggled and shuffled out from under Marco, missing the comfortable warmth his body provided the moment he moved. Getting up with Marco beside him was hard enough. It was even harder when Marco smiled as sweetly as he did and made the bed look inviting all over again.

The mattress groaned when Jean shifted his weight and slid over to the edge. Getting to his feet was the next struggle and it wasn’t any easier with Marco’s fingers brushing over his arm, trying to pull him back. “Breakfast is going to get cold if I don’t make my way down there.” He barely managed to get away, wanting to fall back into those arms and pretend he too didn’t need to eat anything.

Marco pushed himself up from the bed. “You don’t know that. She didn’t knock. She didn’t call.” He argued with such a tease in his voice that Jean paused, arms stilling for just a moment to take it in, long enough to savour the feel of the room.

“We have a routine,” Jean huffed and started for the door, knowing Marco wouldn’t be far behind him. “And she seems to avoid my room when you’re here.” He pushed his way through with a light turn of the doorknob, listening out for any sign of his mother. If there was a chance she could hear him talking to Marco, he wanted to know before he could embarrass himself. He’d already had a few close calls so far.

Marco asked with a smile in his voice, keeping in step right behind Jean. “You think she hears you?” He took every opportunity he had to speak when they both knew someone was within hearing distance. It had become one of Marco’s favourite games, and despite the risk and the anxious feeling that came with it, Jean grit his teeth and refused to admit he enjoyed it.

The steps down the stairs were loud enough to signal Jean’s descent and the gruff rushed whisper he answered with. “God, I hope not…” The last few creaked, announcing Jean was downstairs and ready for breakfast. There was no telling what could be heard from the kitchen. “I’m going to have to keep quiet now…”

Marco sighed and groaned, “Yeah, yeah, I know.” He hated the silence as much as Jean did. The days passed with intermittent conversations and stolen moments where Marco lured him off to somewhere quiet where the two of them could be alone. Somehow people were less worried about a man that disappeared when he was happy. Perhaps because he returned with a bigger smile.

“Morning, maman,” Jean sang out, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table, assessing the morning’s pancakes on the table. Whether she knew it or not, she’d taken to baking on the mornings where Marco stayed the night and remained into the daytime. Perhaps there was a part of her that knew and maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t quite as wrong with his suspicions.

She took the seat opposite him, smiling warmly, hands rested lightly on the table like she was waiting for something else. “Morning, Jean.” Her eyes levelled with his, softness pooling in them, thoughts hidden inside while her voice was filled with something wistful. Her hands quickly gestured to the array of food on the table. “I’ve got some pancakes on the table for you. Help yourself.”

Jean leaned forward and onto the table. “Everything okay?” He couldn’t help but notice Marco coming into view, standing by the end of the table, watching with a hint of concern. He tried his best to keep out of Jean’s interactions, but he was always present, observing the way Jean struggled with knowing that Marco was right there with him.

His mother shook her head, dismissing an idea that flickered in her eyes. She glanced up for a second, attention turned in Marco’s direction, but nothing on her face changed. A smile appeared as quickly as it faded. “I… thought… it’s nothing. Been hearing and seeing a lot of things lately.”

Jean swallowed hard and let his hand reach up to scratch his neck, allowing himself an excuse to turn Marco’s way. Their eyes met, curious and worried and perhaps a little amused considering their conversation merely moments ago. Turning back, he nodded and said nothing, not knowing how he could explain that he knew what she was going through. Perhaps Marco was gaining more of a foothold in the world than they’d thought.

Taking full advantage of the bright morning and warm breakfast, Jean suspected there was a promise of something new on the horizon that glowed as brightly as any one of Marco’s specks. He was shining brighter as a whole than any of his specks ever did. The reality that his mother could see glimpses of Marco could only mean there was so much yet to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked this addition to the story. I'd love to hear what you think and you can let me know here or on [foxberryblue](http://twitter.com/foxberryblue).


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